My name is Amanula.

I’m 47 years old.

And on May 11th, 2018, I was set on fire by the Saudi religious court for reading the Bible.

I was a high-ranking government minister who had enforced Islamic law my entire career.

What happened next defied every law of physics and religion I knew.

Before you dismiss this as impossible, let me tell you exactly what occurred that day.

I was born in 1971 in the heart of Riyad, Saudi Arabia into a family where Islam wasn’t just a religion but the very air we breathed.

My father served as the imam of our neighborhood mosque, a position he held with tremendous pride and responsibility.

From the moment I could speak Arabic verses from the Quran filled my ears.

My mother would wake me before dawn for faja prayers.

Her gentle hand on my shoulder, a daily reminder that our entire existence revolved around serving Allah.

By the time I turned 12, I had memorized the entire Quran.

This wasn’t unusual in our household, but it filled my father with immense pride.

He would have me recite passages to visitors.

His chest swelling as neighbors praised my pronunciation and understanding.

Islam wasn’t just my religion.

It was my identity, my purpose, my everything.

Every decision, every thought, every breath was filtered through the teachings of the prophet Muhammad and the guidance of Islamic law.

The call to prayer echoed through our home five times daily and never once did I consider it an interruption.

It was the rhythm of life itself.

During Ramadan, our family fasted with devotion that bordered on reverence.

I remember the intense spiritual satisfaction of denying myself food and water during daylight hours.

Believing each moment of hunger brought me closer to Allah’s favor.

My father taught me that suffering for Allah’s sake was a privilege, not a burden.

When I reached university age, there was never any question about my path.

I studied Islamic law and government administration at King Saud University, excelling in courses that taught me how to implement Sharia law in modern governance.

My professors praised my deep understanding of Islamic Jewish prudence and my unwavering commitment to preserving Saudi Arabia’s religious purity.

During these years, I met my future wife, Fatima, a devout woman from another religious family whose father also served in religious leadership.

Our marriage was blessed with three children, two sons, Ahmed and Muhammad, and one daughter, Zahra.

I raised them exactly as my father had raised me, with unwavering devotion to Islamic principles.

Every evening after mug prayers, I would gather them around to me to teach them verses from the Quran.

Their innocent voices reciting sacred Arabic filled me with a sense of purpose and continuity.

I was passing down a pure faith to the next generation, just as my ancestors had done for centuries.

My career in government service began shortly after graduation.

I started as a junior clerk in the Ministry of Islamic Affairs, but my dedication and knowledge quickly caught the attention of senior officials.

By my late 30s, I had been promoted to Deputy Minister of Religious Affairs, a position that carried enormous responsibility for maintaining Saudi Arabia’s spiritual integrity.

My office overlooked the bustling streets of Riyad and from my window I could see the faithful hurrying to and from the nearby mosque for their daily prayers.

In this role I was tasked with one of the most critical responsibilities in our kingdom, monitoring and preventing the spread of Christianity and other foreign religions.

Saudi Arabia prided itself on being the birthplace of Islam and we considered it our sacred duty to protect this holy land from corruption by false teachings.

I oversaw raids on suspected Christian gatherings, interrogated individuals caught with Bibles or other Christian materials and recommended appropriate punishments under Islamic law.

I was absolutely convinced that Christianity was a corrupted religion, a distortion of the pure monotheism that Abraham had taught.

Christians, I believed, had twisted the message of prophet Isa, whom they called Jesus, turning him into a false god and creating the abomination of the Trinity.

How could any thinking person believe that God had a son? How could they worship a man who was crucified like a common criminal? These beliefs seemed not just wrong but offensive to the majesty and oneness of Allah.

My daily routine reflected my deep commitment to Islamic practice.

I woke each morning before dawn for faja prayers followed by the recitation of morning dikur and supplications.

After breakfast, I would drive to my office, stopping briefly at the ministry mosque for additional prayers.

My lunch break always coincided with dur prayers, and I never missed the congregation that gathered in our building’s prayer room.

Asser prayers interrupted my afternoon work.

Mr.

prayers marked the end of my official duties.

And Issha prayers concluded each day with family worship at home.

Every Friday, I delivered sermons at the government mosque, standing before hundreds of civil servants and their families.

My messages focused on maintaining pure Islamic faith in an increasingly connected world.

I warned against the dangers of Western influence, the corruption of Christian missionary activities, and the importance of protecting our children from foreign religious ideas.

The congregation hung on my words, nodding in agreement as I explained how Islam provided complete guidance for every aspect of life.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever believed something so completely that questioning it seemed not just wrong but impossible? That was my relationship with Islam.

It wasn’t merely what I believed.

It was who I was.

My government salary supported my family, but my true reward came from knowing I was serving Allah by protecting the faithful from deception and preserving the purity of Islamic teaching in our holy kingdom.

When foreign diplomats or businessmen asked about religious freedom in Saudi Arabia, I would explain with complete confidence that we already possessed perfect religious freedom.

The freedom to practice the one true religion without corruption or interference.

Why would anyone need the freedom to believe lies when they already had access to perfect truth? This wasn’t oppression.

It was protection.

We were guardians of the most precious treasure on earth.

Pure, undiluted Islamic faith, exactly as the prophet Muhammad had revealed it 14 centuries ago.

It was early May 2018 when my entire world view began to crack.

I had just overseen a raid on what our intelligence sources identified as an underground Christian meeting in a private residence in eastern Riad.

These operations were routine for me.

But something about this particular raid would change everything.

Among the confiscated materials was a worn leatherbound English Bible.

Its pages yellowed and margins filled with handwritten notes in Arabic.

As deputy minister of religious affairs, protocol required me to personally examine all confiscated religious materials before they were destroyed.

I had done this hundreds of times before, quickly flipping through pages of what I considered corrupted texts, documenting their contents for our reports, then consigning them to the flames.

But this Bible was different somehow.

Perhaps it was the obvious care with which someone had handled it, or the thoughtful Arabic notes scattered throughout its margins, but something compelled me to take it home for more thorough examination.

I told myself this was purely professional research.

How could I effectively argue against Christian beliefs if I didn’t understand them completely? I convinced myself that studying this corrupted book would only strengthen my ability to protect others from its deceptions.

Looking back now, I realized that Allah was already working in a ways I couldn’t comprehend using my professional duties to place his word directly into my hands.

That first night, after my family had gone to sleep, I sat in my private study with the Bible before me.

The house was completely silent except for the distant sound of traffic from the main road and the gentle hum of the air conditioning.

I opened the book randomly expecting to find the obvious contradictions and corruptions that Islamic scholars had always taught me about Christian scripture.

Instead, I found myself reading Matthew 5:44.

But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

This single verse stopped me cold.

Everything in my Islamic training had told me that Christians taught hatred and violence, that they were crusaders who sought to destroy Islam through force and deception.

Yet here was their central figure, this Jesus whom they worshiped, teaching something that sounded remarkably similar to Islamic principles of mercy and forgiveness.

How could a corrupted book contain such wisdom? I read the verse again, then continued through the entire chapter, finding teaching after teaching that challenged my preconceptions about Christian beliefs.

Night after night for the next 3 weeks, I found myself returning to that study with the forbidden book.

I told my wife I was working on important ministry documents that required my complete concentration, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

This was certainly important work, though not the kind she would have expected or approved of.

Each reading session lasted for hours as I slowly worked my way through the Gospels, comparing what I read with everything I had been taught about Christian theology.

The stories of Jesus healing the sick fascinated me in Islam.

We revered Issa as a prophet who performed miracles.

But the detailed accounts in the Christian Gospels painted a picture of compassion and power that I had never fully appreciated.

Here was a man who touched lepers when everyone else fled from them.

Who welcomed tax collectors and prostitutes when religious leaders shunned them.

Who forgave his enemies even as they crucified him.

The parables about forgiveness and mercy particularly captured my attention.

The story of the prodigal son moved me to tears as I read about a father’s unconditional love for his weward child.

The parable of the good Samaritan challenged my understanding of who truly follows God’s will.

These weren’t the teachings of a false prophet seeking to lead people astray.

These were profound spiritual truths that resonated deep within my soul.

But it was John 3:16 that truly shattered my theological foundations.

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 this verse dozens of times struggling to comprehend its implications.

Could it be true that God’s love extended to all humanity, not just to those who followed the correct religious practices? Could salvation really be a gift rather than something earned through good deeds and perfect adherence to divine law? Each page challenged my fundamental beliefs about the nature of God, salvation, and human purpose.

I found myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wrestling with questions that threatened everything I had built my life upon.

The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming.

How could a corrupted book contain such profound spiritual insights? How could the teachings of a false prophet produce such wisdom about love, forgiveness, and sacrifice? I began comparing passages from the Bible with verses from the Quran, searching for the contradictions that Islamic scholars assured me would be obvious.

Instead, I found complimentary themes and parallel teachings that suggested both books might be pointing toward the same divine truth.

The more I read, the more I questioned whether everything I had been taught about Christianity might be wrong.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you do if everything you believed about your purpose in life suddenly came under scrutiny? The internal wrestling was excruciating.

I felt like I was betraying everything I had ever known, dishonoring my father’s memory, abandoning my family’s heritage, and risking my career and reputation.

Yet I couldn’t stop reading.

Something was drawing me deeper into this forbidden knowledge, and I was powerless to resist.

The breaking point came when I read the detailed accounts of Jesus’s crucifixion in all four gospels.

The Islamic teaching I had learned insisted that God would never allow one of his prophets to suffer such humiliation.

that Jesus had been secretly rescued before the crucifixion could take place.

But as I read these Christian accounts, a different understanding began to emerge.

What if the crucifixion wasn’t a sign of defeat, but of victory? What if God had chosen to suffer alongside his creation rather than remain distant from human pain? understanding dawned on me like sunrise after the darkest night.

This wasn’t just about a religious doctrine or theological debate.

This was about the very nature of love itself.

What kind of God dies for his enemies? What kind of love sacrifices itself for those who reject and persecute it? For the first time in my life, I began to understand that grace might be more powerful than law.

that mercy might triumph over judgment, that love might be stronger than death itself.

On May 10th, 2018, at 2:47 in the morning, alone in my study, with that worn Bible open before me, I did something that would change my eternal destiny.

I looked up from the pages, tears streaming down my face, and whispered into the darkness, “Jesus, if you’re real, if you’re truly the son of God, as these words claim, please show me the truth.

I surrender my life to you.

The moment those words left my lips, something extraordinary happened in my study.

The air itself seemed to change, becoming thick with a presence I had never experienced before.

A warmth began in my chest and spread throughout my entire body.

Not the physical warmth of fever or exertion, but something deeper, something that touched the very core of my being.

I felt chains breaking off my soul that I didn’t even know were there.

Invisible bondages that had held me captive my entire life, suddenly snapping like dried twigs.

The presence in that room was overwhelming yet gentle, powerful yet tender.

I found myself weeping uncontrollably, not from sorrow, but from a joy so intense it seemed my heart might burst.

For 47 years, I had performed religious duties, said prescribed prayers, and followed Islamic law with meticulous precision.

Yet, I had never felt the living presence of God like this.

This wasn’t religion.

This was relationship.

This wasn’t duty.

This was love.

As I knelt there in my study, trembling with the reality of what was happening, I saw him, not with my physical eyes, but with a spiritual sight that was more real than anything I had ever witnessed.

Jesus Christ stood before me, his hands bearing the marks of crucifixion, his eyes filled with such love and compassion that I understood immediately why people would die for him.

He spoke no audible words.

Yet I heard his voice clearly in my heart.

Amanah, my beloved son, you are forgiven.

You are free.

You belong to me now.

In that instant, I understood grace for the first time in my life.

All my years of striving to earn Allah’s favor through perfect religious observance.

All my fears of divine punishment for the smallest infractions.

All my anxiety about whether I had done enough to secure paradise melted away like snow in the desert sun.

Jesus had already done everything necessary for my salvation.

His sacrifice on the cross had paid the price for every sin I had ever committed or would commit.

I was loved unconditionally, accepted completely and forgiven eternally.

The transformation was immediate and total.

I felt like a new person, as if the old Amanula had died in that chair and been replaced by someone entirely different.

The guilt that had plagued me for reading the forbidden book vanished, replaced by gratitude for God’s providence in placing it in my hands.

The fear of discovery that had haunted my secret reading sessions disappeared, replaced by an unshakable peace that surpassed all understanding.

I knew beyond any shadow of doubt that Jesus Christ was Lord, that he was the son of God, that he had risen from the dead, and that he was now my personal savior.

I spent the remainder of that night in prayer and worship.

My heart overflowing with praise for the God who had pursued me, even in my ignorance and rebellion.

I read the Bible with new eyes, understanding flooding through passages that had previously seemed mysterious or confusing.

The Holy Spirit, whom I now recognized as God’s presence within me, illuminated the scriptures with divine insight.

For the first time, I felt truly forgiven, truly loved, truly at peace with my creator.

Morning came too quickly.

I had to return to my role as deputy minister of religious affairs, sitting in meetings about preventing Christian evangelism while my own heart burned with the fire of the gospel.

The irony was both tragic and absurd.

I spent that day in a days going through the motions of my official duties while my spirit soared with the joy of salvation.

Every Islamic prayer felt hollow.

Every discussion of religious enforcement seemed pointless.

Every reference to protecting Saudi Arabia from Christian influence struck me as defending people from the very truth that could set them free.

I managed to maintain my normal facade for exactly 18 hours.

The next morning, May 11th, 2018, I arrived at my office with every intention of continuing to live this double life until I could figure out how to safely navigate my new faith.

I had no plan for telling my family, no strategy for leaving my position, no idea how to live as a secret Christian in the heart of the Islamic world.

I simply knew that Jesus had become my Lord and that somehow someday I would find a way to follow him openly.

What I didn’t know was that my secret had already been discovered.

The night security guard at our government building had noticed an unusual light emanating from under my study door during his rounds.

Curious and concerned, he had used his master key to check on me, finding me kneeling in prayer before an open Bible.

Instead of interrupting what he assumed was some kind of religious research, he had simply noted the incident in his report and moved on with his duties.

That morning, the head of the building security reviewed the overnight reports as part of his standard routine.

The mention of a high-ranking minister praying over a Bible in the middle of the night raised immediate red flags.

Within an hour, the security footage from the hallway outside my study had been pulled and reviewed.

Though the cameras couldn’t see inside my office, they clearly showed me arriving with the confiscated Bible and spending several hours alone with it in circumstances that looked decidedly non-professional.

I was sitting at my desk reviewing routine correspondence and trying to process the magnitude of what had happened to me when the religious police burst through my office door.

Six armed officers in traditional white throbes surrounded my desk while their commander, a stern man named Captain Al-Rashid, whom I had worked with many times before, approached with the security footage printed in his hand.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine the terror of that moment.

These weren’t ordinary police officers.

They were the Mutawa, the committee for the promotion of virtue and prevention of vice, Saudi Arabia’s religious enforcement arm.

I had worked closely with them throughout my career, authorizing their investigations and supporting their activities.

Now they were here for me, and I knew exactly what that meant.

Captain Al-Rashid placed the photographs on my desk without saying a word.

The images clearly showed me entering and leaving my study with the Bible, though thankfully they couldn’t capture the supernatural encounter that had taken place inside.

He then opened my desk drawer and removed the Bible, which I had foolishly returned to the same location where I kept other confiscated materials.

Minister Amanula, he said, his voice heavy with disgust and disappointment.

You are under arrest for apostasy, blasphemy, and corruption of Islamic faith.

You will come with us immediately for questioning and trial before the religious council.

The next few minutes passed in a blur.

My hands were bound behind my back with plastic zip ties while my colleagues watched in stunned silence from the hallway.

Word spread quickly through the building that a high-ranking minister had been caught with Christian materials.

The shame and scandal were immediate and devastating.

As they marched me through the corridors where I had worked for over a decade, I heard whispers and gasps from people who had respected and trusted me.

The news reached my family.

Before I was even loaded into the police vehicle, my wife Fatima was waiting in the parking lot.

Her face a mask of horror and disbelief.

My children stood beside her, confusion and terror written across their young faces.

My daughter Zara, only 14 years old, called out, “Baba, what is happening?” as the officers pushed me into the back of their van.

The look in her eyes haunts me still.

The moment when her hero became her source of shame, the trial was a foregone conclusion.

In Saudi Arabia, apostasy cases follow a rigid pattern established by centuries of Islamic Jewish prudence.

I sat in the defendant’s chair in the religious council chambers, facing five judges who had been my colleagues just days earlier.

The irony was suffocating.

These were men I had worked with, shared meals with, prayed alongside in the ministry mosque.

Now they looked at me with a mixture of disgust, pity, and righteous anger.

The evidence against me was overwhelming and undeniable.

The security footage the Bible found in my possession, and my complete inability to deny the charges created an open and shut case.

When Chief Judge Al Muana asked if I had indeed converted to Christianity, I could have lied.

I could have claimed I was conducting research, gathering intelligence on Christian tactics, or studying their texts to better refute them.

The judges might have accepted such an explanation, especially given my long history of faithful service to the Islamic State.

Instead, I looked directly into the eyes of men who had once called me brother and said the words that sealed my fate.

Yes, I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, that he died for my sins, and that he is my Lord and Savior.

The courtroom erupted in gasps and horrified whispers.

Even the baiffs stepped back as if my words had made me physically contaminated.

Chief Judge Al- Muana’s face turned red with fury as he shouted for order in his court.

The sentence was swift and unanimous death by public burning to be carried out the following day in Dera Square, Riyad’s traditional side of public executions.

No appeal was permitted for apostasy cases involving government officials.

The judges declared that my betrayal of Islamic faith while serving in a position of religious authority made my crime particularly heinous and deserving of the most severe punishment available under Sharia law.

That night in my prison cell I experienced a peace that defied all logic.

I should have been terrified, desperate, pleading with God to deliver me from the consequences of my faith.

Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of honor that I had been found worthy to suffer for the name of Jesus.

I thought of Steven, the first Christian martyr who had seen Jesus standing at the right hand of God as his executioners stoned him to death.

I thought of countless believers throughout history who had chosen death rather than deny their Lord.

I spent those final hours in prayer and meditation on scripture verses I had memorized during my brief time as a Christian.

Romans 8:28 echoed in my mind.

And we know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Even this execution, I realized, was somehow part of God’s perfect plan.

Perhaps my public death would plant seeds of faith in the hearts of witnesses.

Perhaps my testimony would reach Muslims who had never heard the true gospel.

May 11th, 2018 dawned clear and hot, typical for Riad in late spring.

The execution was scheduled for noon when the sun would be at its most intense and the maximum number of people would be available to witness the state’s justice.

I was transported to Dera Square in an armored van, my hands and feet shackled, wearing the simple white robe traditionally given to condemned prisoners.

The square was packed with hundreds of spectators.

Public executions in Saudi Arabia always drew crowds, but this case had generated unusual interest because of my former position in the government.

Many of these people had heard me preach in the ministry mosque, had respected me as a defender of Islamic faith, had trusted my judgment on religious matters.

Now they had come to watch me burn for betraying everything I had once represented.

The wooden stake stood in the center of the square, surrounded by the bundles of dried wood soaked in gasoline.

The executioner, a massive man whose face was covered by a black mask, waited beside the py with his torch.

Religious police formed a perimeter around the execution site while government officials occupied a reviewing platform to ensure that justice was properly administered.

As they bound me to the stake with thick ropes, I looked out over the crowd and saw faces I recognized.

Former colleagues from the ministry stood in the front rows, their expressions ranging from satisfaction to sorrow.

My wife Fatima was there, her face stre with tears, our children clinging to her sides.

She had been required to attend as part of her divorce proceedings to publicly witness the death of the husband she was discarding.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine facing your final moments on earth.

What would you pray for? What would occupy your thoughts? As the executioner poured gasoline over my body and the wood around the stake, I found my mind filled not with fear, but with gratitude.

I prayed silently, “Jesus, I commit my spirit to you.

Thank you for counting me worthy to suffer for your name.

Use my death to glorify yourself and draw others to your truth.

” The executioner stepped back and raised his torch.

The crowd fell silent in anticipation of the moment when flames would consume the apostate minister.

Chief Judge Al- Muana stood and read the charges against me one final time.

His voice carrying across the square through a portable microphone.

Let this be a warning to all who would betray the faith of their fathers, he declared.

The penalty for apostasy is death and Saudi Arabia will never tolerate corruption of Islamic belief.

The torch touched the gasoline soaked wood and flames immediately roared to life around the base of the stake.

The heat was overwhelming, more intense than anything I had ever experienced.

Within seconds, the fire had spread up the wooden structure, reaching my feet and legs.

The crowd watched in fascination and horror as the flames began to consume what they expected would be my final moments.

But something impossible was happening.

The fire burned fiercely around me, consuming my clothes within minutes and reducing the ropes that bound me to ash.

Yet my skin remained completely untouched.

I stood in the middle of an inferno, completely naked, but unharmed as flames danced around my body without causing any pain or injury.

The crowd’s silence gave way to gasps and screams of terror.

Some people fell to their knees.

Others ran in panic from the square.

The executioner dropped his torch and backed away, his eyes wide with shock behind his mask.

Even the religious judges on their platform stared in disbelief at what they were witnessing.

In that moment, surrounded by supernatural fire, I heard the voice of Jesus as clearly as if he were standing beside me.

My child, you are free.

I looked up through the flames and saw him there walking toward me through the inferno with arms outstretched in welcome.

The sight filled me with such joy and boldness that I began praising God loudly in Arabic for all to hear.

Allah Akbar, I shouted, using the familiar Islamic phrase, but directing it to Jesus Christ.

God is great and he has shown his power today.

Jesus Christ is Lord.

He is the son of God.

He has risen from the dead.

My voice carried clearly across the square as hundreds of witnesses watched flames part around me like I was Moses walking through the Red Sea.

No one dared approach the P.

The police stood frozen, too stunned to react.

The religious judges huddled together in panicked consultation, unsure whether they were witnessing a miracle or sorcery.

Some in the crowd began to wail and beat their chests, convinced they had witnessed Allah’s judgment against those who would execute his servant.

I walked calmly through the dissipating flames, my feet touching the ground unburned, my body completely unharmed despite having been engulfed in fire.

hot enough to melt metal.

The crowd parted before me like waves before a ship.

People too terrified to block my path.

Behind me, the wooden stake continued to burn, now empty of its intended victim.

As I reached the edge of the square, still naked but untouched by the flames that should have consumed me, I turned back to address the crowd one final time.

The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob has spoken today.

I declared Jesus Christ is his son, and no fire can destroy those who belong to him.

Then I walked steadily away from Deerra Square, leaving behind my old life forever.

The aftermath of my miraculous escape from the flames created chaos throughout Saudi Arabia that the government desperately tried to suppress.

Within hours of my walking unharmed from the execution pell phone videos of the impossible event had begun circulating through WhatsApp groups and social media platforms.

The authorities moved quickly to confiscate phones, arrest witnesses who had filmed the incident, and issue official statements claiming that technical malfunctions with the execution equipment had caused the apparent miracle.

I found myself running through the back streets of Riyad, still naked, still stunned by what had just occurred, when a small sedan pulled up beside me.

The driver was an elderly man named Brother Ysef, a member of the underground Christian community whose house had been raided just weeks earlier.

Without hesitation, he threw a blanket around my shoulders and helped me into his car.

The angels told me where to find you, he said simply, as if divine guidance for rescue missions was the most natural thing in the world.

Brother Ysef drove me to a safe house operated by a network of secret believers who had been praying for my safety since news of my arrest had spread through their community.

These Christians, mostly foreign workers and a few Saudi converts who had managed to keep their faith hidden, welcomed me with tears of joy and amazement.

They had witnessed the impossible and they understood that God had intervened in the most dramatic way possible to preserve my life and testimony.

The safe house was a modest apartment in an older section of Riyad occupied by a Filipino nurse named Sister Maria who worked at King Fisel Hospital.

She had converted the spare bedroom into a sanctuary where believers could gather for secret worship services and Bible studies.

For the first time in my life, I experienced authentic Christian fellowship, joining my voice with other believers as we sang hymns of praise to Jesus Christ.

The cost of following Christ became devastatingly real during my first days in hiding.

News reached me that my wife Fatima had already filed for divorce, claiming that she had been married to an apostate without her knowledge and demanding that the Islamic court dissolve our marriage immediately.

Under Saudi law, a Muslim woman cannot remain married to a non-Muslim man, and my public conversion had automatically terminated our relationship.

More heartbreaking was the news about my children.

Ahmed, Muhammad, and Zara had been taken into custody by my wife’s family and were being subjected to intensive Islamic re-education to ensure that their father’s apostasy had not contaminated their faith.

They were forbidden from speaking my name, required to publicly denounce me as a traitor to Islam, and threatened with disownment if they showed any sympathy for my conversion to Christianity.

My extended family acted swiftly to distance themselves from the scandal I had brought upon our name.

My elderly mother, who had been so proud of my government position and religious authority, issued a public statement declaring that she had no son named Amanula.

My brothers changed their last names and moved to different cities to escape association with my apostasy.

cousins, uncles, and lifelong friends who had celebrated my achievements now spoke of me as if I had died in infancy.

The spiritual growth I experienced during those weeks in hiding was extraordinary.

Brother Ysef and Sister Maria became my mentors in Christian doctrine, patiently teaching me the fundamental beliefs that I had never properly understood.

During my brief secret study of the Bible, I learned about the Trinity not as a mathematical impossibility, but as a beautiful mystery of God’s relational nature.

I discovered baptism as a symbol of death to the old life and resurrection to new life in Christ.

Understanding grace proved to be the most revolutionary aspect of my Christian education.

For 47 years, I had lived under the crushing weight of Islamic law.

constantly anxious about whether my prayers were acceptable, my fasting complete, my charity sufficient, my pilgrimage properly performed.

The concept that salvation was a free gift rather than a earned reward initially seemed too good to be true.

How could God simply forgive all sins without requiring payment or penance? Sister Maria explained it with a patience that reflected Christ’s own heart.

Amanula, Jesus already made the payment on the cross.

Your good works are not the price of salvation.

They are the fruit of gratitude for salvation already purchased.

This truth liberated me from decades of religious anxiety and filled me with a joy that bubbled up from the deepest parts of my soul.

The Underground Christian Network demonstrated remarkable courage and organization in arranging my escape from Saudi Arabia.

They had developed sophisticated systems for moving converts and persecuted believers to safety, often using routes through Jordan or Kuwait that avoided the heaviest Saudi border security.

My case presented unique challenges because my face had been broadcast on television and my photograph distributed to every checkpoint in the kingdom.

God orchestrated every detail of my exodus from Saudi Arabia with supernatural precision.

A mysterious benefactor whom I never met but later learned was a wealthy Christian businessman from Europe provided false documentation that identified me as a Pakistani construction worker returning home after completing a project in Riyad.

The quality of the forgery was so perfect that even experienced border guards accepted it without question.

The escape itself was a series of miracles that demonstrated God’s protective hand upon my life.

At the first checkpoint, the guard who examined my false passport was distracted by a phone call just as he began to study my photograph too carefully.

At the second checkpoint, a bus accident on the nearby highway diverted security attention away from way individual travelers.

At the final border crossing into Jordan, the computer system that would have flagged my real identity suffered a mysterious malfunction just as my documents were being processed.

I crossed into Jordan on a crowded bus filled with migrant workers.

My heart pounding with each kilometer that put distance between me and the kingdom where I had nearly died for my faith.

As the bus passed the final Saudi checkpoint and entered Jordanian territory, I felt chains of fear and oppression breaking off my spirit.

For the first time in weeks, I could breathe freely, worship openly, and speak the name of Jesus without looking over my shoulder.

The Jordanian Christian community welcomed me with overwhelming love and support.

Pastor Ibrahim, who led an Arabic-speaking congregation in Aman, had been expecting my arrival and had prepared temporary housing in the church compound.

That first Sunday morning worship service in Jordan was a spiritual earthquake for me.

To hear hundreds of voices raised in Arabic songs of praise to Jesus Christ.

To participate in communion without fear of discovery.

To pray aloud in my native language to the God who had saved me from literal fire was an experience of freedom that brought me to tears of gratitude.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever lost everything that defined your identity and discovered that what remained was more precious than what you had lost.

The family I had loved was gone.

The career I had built was destroyed.

The country I had served had tried to execute me.

Yet I had never felt more complete or purposeful in my life.

Jesus had become my family.

Christian ministry had become my calling.

And the whole world had become my home.

Within months of arriving in Jordan, I began to sense God’s calling to share my testimony more widely.

The story of the Saudi minister who had survived execution by fire was spreading throughout the Middle Eastern Christian community and invitations began arriving for me to speak at churches and conferences throughout the region.

I realized that God had saved me not just from the flames but for a purpose that was larger than my personal salvation.

The calling to reach other Muslims with the gospel became undeniable when within months of my escape from Saudi Arabia.

I had been saved not just from physical fire but from spiritual darkness.

And I understood that my experience was meant to be shared with others who were still trapped in the same religious bondage that had once held me captive.

God had given me a unique testimony that could speak directly to the hearts of Muslims who had never seriously considered the claims of Christianity.

My first speaking engagement was at a small Arabic-speaking church in Aman, Jordan, where I shared my story with about 50 refugees and immigrant workers from various Middle Eastern countries.

The response was overwhelming.

Men and women wept openly as I described my transformation from Islamic minister to Christian convert and several approached me afterward to ask how they could learn more about Jesus Christ.

The pastor was amazed by the spiritual impact and immediately began arranging additional opportunities for me to speak.

Within a year, invitations were arriving from churches and conferences throughout Europe.

where large populations of Muslim immigrants were struggling with questions about faith, identity, and purpose.

I discovered that my testimony resonated powerfully with second and third generation Muslims living in Western countries who had been raised in Islamic families but felt increasingly disconnected from their parents’ religion.

My story gave them permission to explore Christianity without feeling like they were betraying their cultural heritage.

The miracles did not end with my escape from the execution fire.

During my early ministry travels, I experienced supernatural protection from multiple assassination attempts ordered by Saudi intelligence agencies on three separate occasions.

Car bombs that had been placed under vehicles I was scheduled to use mysteriously failed to detonate.

Once in London, a gunman who had been hired to kill me reportedly saw two large men in white robes standing beside me on the platform as I spoke and fled the building in terror.

Financial provision for my ministry came through channels that could only be described as miraculous.

Anonymous donors from around the world began sending support that covered my travel expenses, living costs, and the production of Arabic language materials that shared my testimony and explained the gospel clearly for Muslim audiences.

I never asked for money or promoted fundraising campaigns.

Yet, every need was met precisely when it was needed.

The most challenging aspect of my new calling was learning to live with the constant awareness that I would never see my children again.

Saudi authorities had made it clear that any attempt to contact Ahmed, Muhammad or Zara would result in severe punishment for them as well as renewed efforts to capture and execute me.

The pain of this separation was a wound that never fully healed.

Yet I found comfort in knowing that God understood the cost of sacrificial love.

Having given up his own son for the salvation of humanity, my ministry to Muslims required developing new skills and strategies that differed significantly from traditional Christian evangelism.

Most Muslims had been taught from childhood that Christianity was a corrupted religion, that the Bible had been changed and distorted, and that Christians worshiped three gods instead of one.

I had to learn to address these specific misconceptions with patience, knowledge, and respect for the sincere faith that many Muslims possessed.

Even while following what I now knew to be an incomplete revelation, I began writing and speaking extensively about the similarities between Islamic and Christian teachings, helping Muslim audiences understand that following Jesus did not require them to abandon their love for God or their desire for righteousness.

Instead, Christianity offered the fulfillment of everything they had been seeking through Islamic practice, forgiveness, peace with God, assurance of salvation, and the power to live holy lives through divine grace rather than human effort.

The underground ministry to reach Muslims in close countries became a central focus of my work.

Working with established missionary organizations, I helped develop strategies for smuggling Bibles and Christian literature into Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan, and other nations where Christian evangelism was forbidden.

My insider knowledge of how Islamic authorities operated gave our teams significant advantages in avoiding detection and reaching people who were spiritually hungry but afraid to seek answers openly.

Training underground pastors and church planters became another crucial aspect of my calling.

Many former Muslims who had converted to Christianity lacked the theological education and pastoral skills needed to effectively shepherd new believers from Islamic backgrounds.

I developed intensive training programs that equipped these leaders to address the unique challenges faced by Muslim converts.

from dealing with family rejection to understanding Christian doctrine in ways that made sense to people from Islamic worldviews.

The most rewarding moments in my ministry came when I witnessed other Muslims experiencing the same transformation that had revolutionized my own life.

I will never forget a young Saudi student studying in Germany who approached me after a conference.

his eyes filled with the same spiritual hunger I had experienced while reading that forbidden Bible in my government office.

After hours of conversation and prayer, he surrendered his life to Jesus Christ and later became a powerful evangelist among Arabic-speaking university students across Europe.

Another unforgettable encounter occurred with an Iranian businessman who had been attending our secret meetings in Istanbul for months, asking questions but never making a commitment.

During one session where I was sharing about God’s unconditional love, he suddenly broke down weeping and cried out, “I want this Jesus you speak about.

” The joy of witnessing his conversion and subsequent baptism reminded me why God had preserved my life through that fire in Riyad.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you be willing to sacrifice to share the most important truth you have ever discovered? For me, the answer became clear as I watched Muslim after Muslim find freedom in Christ.

No amount of persecution, separation from family, or personal danger could compare to the privilege of introducing people to the Savior who had transformed my own destiny.

I’m asking you just as someone who has experienced both worlds would to seriously investigate the claims of Jesus Christ for yourself.

I have lived as a devout Muslim for 47 years and as a committed Christian for several years since then.

I can testify from personal experience that there is no comparison between the two.

Islam offers rules and rituals that promise possible acceptance with God.

Christianity offers a relationship with God that guarantees eternal acceptance through Jesus Christ.

The miracles continue in my ministry today.

Just last month, I received word that one of the guards who witnessed my supernatural protection from the execution fire has secretly converted to Christianity and is now sharing his testimony with other members of the Saudi security forces.

The very system that tried to destroy me is being infiltrated by the gospel through people who cannot deny what they witnessed with their own eyes.

My current life centers around an international ministry that reaches Muslims through conferences, literature, radio broadcasts, and internet resources.

I remarried in 2020 to Sarah, a wonderful Christian woman from Lebanon who shares my calling to reach the Islamic world with the gospel.

Together we are raising two young children in the knowledge and love of Jesus Christ.

And I often think about how different their childhood is from my own rigid Islamic upbringing.

The family I lost when I converted to Christianity has been restored in ways I never could have imagined.

The global community of believers has become my true family.

And I have brothers and sisters in Christ scattered across every continent.

Former Muslims who have found salvation through my ministry stay in contact and update me on their own evangelistic efforts, creating a network of gospel witnesses that continues to expand throughout the Islamic world.

Look inside your own heart right now.

What is God calling you to sacrifice for him? What fears are holding you back from complete surrender to his will? I can promise you from personal experience that no sacrifice made for Jesus Christ ever goes unrewarded.

He may not call you to face literal fire as he called me, but he is calling you to something that will cost you everything and give you everything in return.

If Jesus could save a Saudi minister from literal fire and transform him into an evangelist for the very faith he once persecuted, he can save anyone from spiritual fire and use them for his eternal purposes.

My name is Amanula and I am living proof that no one is beyond the reach of God’s love.

No situation is impossible for his power and no sacrifice is too great for his glory.