My name is Mansour.

I am 35 years old.

And on January 23rd, 2020, I was supposed to die in Saudi Arabia.

25 Christians knelt beside me in that execution courtyard, blindfolded and waiting for the sword to fall.

The executioner raised his weapon above my neck.

But Jesus Christ had other plans that day.

I was born in Jedha in 1985 to a strict Muslim family that breathed Islam with every heartbeat.

My father served as an imam at our local mosque.

A man whose voice could silence a room and whose knowledge of the Quran was legendary.

Throughout our neighborhood when he spoke about Allah, grown men would lean forward to catch every word.

My mother covered herself completely in black, leaving only her eyes visible to the world.

She was the kind of woman who could recite verses from memory while cooking dinner, her lips moving in constant prayer as she stirred the pot.

Five times a day, I prostrated toward Mecca, never questioning why or wondering if there might be another way.

The call to prayer was the rhythm of my life, more reliable than my own heartbeat.

Before dawn, I would roll out my prayer rug on the cold tile floor of our home, facing the holy city, as my father had taught me since I could walk.

The Arabic words flowed from my lips like water memorized so deeply they felt like breathing.

Allah Akbar, God is great.

I said it thousands of times, but I never truly understood what greatness meant.

My childhood was filled with religious education that consumed every spare moment.

After regular school, I attended Islamic classes where we memorized the Quran until our young minds achd from the effort.

The teacher would strike our knuckles with a wooden ruler if we mispronounced a single syllable.

By age 12, I had memorized over half the holy book, earning proud smiles from my father and respectful notes from our community elders.

They called me a blessed child destined for religious leadership.

I lived the traditional Islamic lifestyle without question or complaint.

Friday prayers at the mosque were sacred gatherings where men filled every inch of space shouldertosh shoulder in perfect rows.

I watched my father lead hundreds in worship, his voice booming across the courtyard as he recited verses about submission and obedience.

During Ramadan, our family fasted with dedication that impressed our neighbors.

My mother would wake before sunrise to prepare suhur and we would break our fast together each evening, grateful for Allah’s blessings.

The expectations placed on my shoulders grew heavier with each passing year.

As the Imam’s son, I was expected to be a perfect example of Islamic devotion.

Community members watched my every move, ready to praise or criticize based on my behavior.

When I excelled in religious studies, they praised my father’s teaching.

When I stumbled, they questioned his authority.

The pressure was suffocating, but I thought it was normal.

I thought this weight was what faith was supposed to feel like.

But by my late 20s, something felt empty inside me despite all the prayers and rituals.

I had followed every rule, performed every duty, and earned respect from everyone who knew me.

Yet when I lay awake at night after the final prayer of the day, I felt hollow.

The words I spoke five times daily had become mechanical, like reading from a script rather than speaking from my heart.

I began to wonder if Allah truly heard me or if I was just talking to the ceiling of my bedroom.

Growing questions about Islamic teachings started creeping into my mind like unwelcome guests.

During Friday sermons, I found myself analyzing my father’s words instead of accepting them blindly.

Why did we pray in a language most of us didn’t understand? Why did Allah seem so distant and unreachable? Why did following him feel more like fear than love? These thoughts terrified me because questioning Islam in my family was like questioning the air we breathed.

Secret doubts multiplied in the darkness of my room where no one could hear my troubled heart.

I had been taught that doubt was the whisper of Satan, but I could not silence the questions that grew louder each day.

Was there more to God than the angry judge I had learned about? Could the creator of the universe actually care about one confused man in Saudi Arabia? I felt guilty for even thinking such thoughts, but I could not stop them from coming.

I began searching for truth, not just tradition, in ways that could have cost me everything.

Late at night, when my family slept, I would use my computer to explore questions I could never voice aloud.

My fingers trembled as I typed forbidden searches into search engines, always careful to clear my history afterward.

What started as curiosity about other religions became a desperate hunger for something real and alive.

Online research led me to uh Christian websites and testimonies that spoke of a personal relationship with God.

I read stories of people who claimed to know Jesus Christ not as a distant prophet but as a living friend who walked with them through their daily struggles.

These testimonies described a God who was approachable, loving, and actively involved in human affairs.

The contrast with my Islamic understanding was stark and compelling.

On November 12th, 2007, Jesus appeared to me in a dream that changed the course of my entire existence.

I was standing in a desert place, alone and thirsty, when a man in white robes approached me with water.

His face shone like the sun, but his eyes were gentle and kind.

He spoke my name, Mansour, in a voice that felt like coming home after years of wandering.

He told me he had been waiting for me to seek him, that he loved me more than I could understand.

I woke up knowing my life had changed forever with tears streaming down my face and a peace I had never experienced flowing through my soul.

The emptiness that had plagued me for years was suddenly filled with something warm and alive.

I understood in that moment that I had been searching for Jesus my entire life without knowing his name.

The love I felt was not the fearful mission Islam demanded, but the embrace of a father welcoming his child home.

Have you ever had a moment when you knew God was speaking directly to you? When every doubt and question suddenly made sense because truth himself was standing before you? That morning, I knelt beside my bed and spoke to Jesus for the first time, asking him to be my Lord and Savior.

I did not fully understand what I was doing, but I knew I could never go back to my old life.

God doesn’t leave his children alone.

Even in the most dangerous places on earth, for three months after my conversion, I lived in complete isolation, believing I was the only Christian in all of Saudi Arabia.

I read the Bible on my phone in secret, hiding it like contraband whenever footsteps approach my room.

Prayer became my lifeline.

Whispered conversations with Jesus in the darkness while my family slept peacefully, unaware that everything had changed for me.

The loneliness was crushing.

I had gone from being part of a tight-knit Islamic community to being completely cut off from fellowship with other believers.

Every Friday I still attended mosque with my father, sitting through sermons that now felt foreign to my ears.

I watched hundreds of men prostrate themselves toward Mecca while my heart pulled toward Jerusalem toward the cross toward the Jesus who had saved my soul.

The weight of living this double life was breaking me from the inside.

Then God uh orchestrated a divine appointment that would change everything.

I was shopping for groceries at a market in downtown Jedha when a stranger approached me near the rice section.

He was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a carefully trimmed beard.

Without any preamble, he looked directly into my eyes and said quietly, “Peace be with you, brother.

” Something about the way he emphasized brother made my heart skip a beat.

Brother Ahmed, as I would later know him, slipped a small piece of paper into my hand as he pretended to reach for a bag of lentils.

His movements were so casual that anyone watching would have thought we were just two shoppers accidentally brushing hands.

But when I read his coded message later that evening, my world exploded with hope.

The light shines in the darkness.

it followed by an address and a time.

Only a Christian would know that reference to John’s gospel.

I discovered I wasn’t the only one carrying this beautiful secret.

But Thursday evening, I followed Brother Ahmed’s directions to a modest apartment building in a quiet residential neighborhood.

My hand shook as I climbed the stairs to the third floor, not if I was walking into fellowship or a trap.

When the door opened, I saw something that brought tears to my eyes.

24 other believers gathered in a small living room, their faces glowing with the same joy I had found in Christ.

We were teachers, doctors, shop owners, construction workers, and housewives.

ordinary people with extraordinary faith who had risked everything to follow Jesus in a land where such faith could cost us our lives.

Sister Miriam had converted from Islam three years earlier after her Christian employer had shown her kindness during her father’s death.

Brother Hassan was a former mosque guard who had encountered Jesus through a vision similar to mine.

Each person had a story of divine encounter that led them from darkness into light.

The diversity of our little congregation amazed me.

We had converts from Islam like myself, but also foreign workers from the Philippines, India, and Ethiopia who had kept their Christian faith alive in secret for years.

Age didn’t matter.

Background didn’t matter.

Nationality didn’t matter.

What united us was stronger than what divided us.

We all belong to Jesus Christ.

And he had brought us together in the most unlikely place.

We rotated locations every week to avoid detection by the religious police who were always hunting for unauthorized religious gatherings.

One week we met in Sister Sarah’s basement, the next in brother David’s garage.

Then in a rented office space that one of our members cleaned at night, we had developed an elaborate system of coded text messages and careful timing to ensure our safety.

Everyone knew that one mistake could mean prison or death for all of us.

Those worship times were the most beautiful moments of my life, more precious than gold because of their rarity and danger.

We shared one Arabic Bible that had been smuggled into the country piece by piece over several months.

Taking turns reading from God’s word felt like drinking cold water in the desert.

When we sang hymns, we kept our voices to whispers, but our hearts sang loud enough to reach heaven itself.

Prayer in that small circle felt different from anything I had experienced in Islam.

Instead of reciting memorized phrases in a foreign language, we spoke to Jesus like friends talking to their dearest companion.

People shared their struggles, their fears, their hopes, and we lifted each other up with genuine love.

I watched grown men cry as they confessed their sins and felt God’s forgiveness wash over them.

I saw women who had been treated as secondclass citizens discover their worth as daughters of the king.

The bonds we formed were stronger than family ties because they were forged in the fire of shared persecution.

We knew that each person in that room had chosen Jesus over safety, comfort, and family approval.

When brother Mark lost his job because someone suspected his faith, we pulled our resources to support his family.

When sister Fatima’s husband threatened to divorce her for her conversion, we became her new family, surrounding her with love and encouragement.

But danger lurked constantly in the shadows of our fellowship.

The religious police were getting better at finding underground Christian groups using informants and sophisticated surveillance techniques to track us down.

We heard stories of other secret churches being raided.

Their members disappearing into the prison system, never to be seen again.

Every knock at the door during our meetings made our hearts stop.

Every unexpected phone call could mean exposure and arrest.

The growing crackdowns on Christians throughout the kingdom created an atmosphere of fear that tested our faith daily.

New laws made it even more dangerous to possess Christian materials or meet for worship.

Rewards were offered to anyone who reported suspicious religious activity.

We knew that our own neighbors, friends, and even family members might betray us for the right price or out of religious duty.

Imagine worshiping God, knowing each prayer could be your lust as a free person.

Every time we gathered, we wondered if this would be the night they came for us.

Yet, we couldn’t stay away.

The fellowship was like oxygen to our souls, and we were slowly suffocating without it.

We needed each other’s encouragement, each other’s prayers, each other’s presence to survive in such a hostile environment.

Then, Brother Khaled joined our group and everything began to unravel.

He seemed eager to learn about Christianity, asking thoughtful questions and sharing his own story of spiritual searching.

He was younger than most of us, perhaps 25, with an infectious enthusiasm for his new found faith.

He volunteered to help with arrangements and even offered his own apartment as meeting place.

Something felt wrong about brother Khaled, but we chose to trust when we should have been wise.

Looking back, the warning signs were there.

He asked too many questions about other Christian groups.

He was always trying to get phone numbers and addresses of members.

His story about conversion kept changing in in small details.

But we were so hungry for fellowship and so committed to Christian love that we ignored our instincts and welcomed him as family.

We should have remembered that even Jesus had his Judas.

September 15th, 2019 started like any other worship gathering with the same careful precautions we had followed for months.

I arrived at brother Amed’s basement apartment 20 minutes early as was my custom, helping to arrange the circle of mismatch chairs and cushions where we would soon gather to worship our savior.

The familiar smell of cardamom tea brewing in the kitchen mixed with the mustustiness of the underground room that had become our sanctuary.

Nothing felt different.

Nothing warned me that this would be our last meeting as free people.

We took our usual security precautions with the dedication of soldiers preparing for bottle.

Brother Hassan stationed himself by the small basement window, watching for any suspicious activity in the alley behind the building.

Sister Mariam checked her phone every few minutes, monitoring our group chat for any emergency signals from members who hadn’t arrived yet.

We had learned to be paranoid because paranoia kept us alive in a country where our faith was a death sentence.

25 believers filled the small basement that evening, the largest gathering we had ever risked in one location.

Looking back, that should have been another warning sign.

But we were celebrating brother Paul’s baptism and wanted everyone to witness his public declaration of faith.

The excitement in the room was electric as we prepared to welcome our newest brother into the family of God.

None of us suspected that one person among us had already sold our lives for pieces of silver.

We began our worship service with the whispered prayers of thanksgiving.

Our voices barely audible above the home of the building’s ventilation system.

I remember looking around the circle at faces I had grown to love more than my own blood relatives.

These people had become my true family, bonded together, not by genetics, but by the blood of Jesus Christ.

Sister Fatima’s eyes sparkled with joy despite the bruises on her arms where her husband had beaten her for her faith.

Brother David’s withered hands trembled slightly as he held his worn copy of the Arabic Bible.

Precious because it had cost him three months salary to obtain.

The basement felt warm and safe as we shared communion together, breaking bread and drinking grape juice while remembering our Lord’s sacrifice on the cross.

Each person took turns sharing a brief testimony of God’s faithfulness during the past week.

Brother Mark spoke of finding a new job after losing his previous position due to faith related suspicions.

Sister Sarah whispered about her teenage daughter’s growing interest in Christianity despite the danger it represented for their family.

We were singing, “How great thou art!” in hushed Arabic when hell broke loose in our peaceful sanctuary.

The words, “Oh Lord, my God,” when I, in awesome wonder, were still on our lips when the basement door exploded inward with a violence that shook dust from the ceiling.

The beautiful melody of worship transformed instantly into screams of terror as armed religious flooded into our sacred space like a black tide of destruction.

The door exploded inward at exactly 9:23 p.

m.

A time now burned into my memory like a brand.

I know the exact moment because I was looking at my watch.

Calculating how much longer we could safely remain together before the building’s night security guard made his rounds.

The thick wooden door reinforced with metal bars that brother Ahmed had installed for our protection splintered like matchsticks under the force of the police battering run.

15 officers dressed in the black uniforms of the religious police stormed into our basement sanctuary with automatic weapons drawn and angry shouts that echoed of the concrete walls.

Their faces were masked, making them look like demons emerging from the darkness to destroy everything beautiful and holy.

The lead officer screamed commands in Arabic while his men spread throughout the small space, cornering us like animals marked for slaughter.

Brother Khaled stood behind them in the doorway, avoiding our eyes as the terrible truth of his betrayal became clear to everyone in the room.

The young man we had trusted, fed, prayed with, and loved like a brother had been working for the authorities from the very beginning.

His eager questions about our faith hadn’t been genuine seeking but intelligence gathering.

His enthusiasm for Christianity had been perfectly acted.

Deception designed to destroy us all.

The shock of betrayal hit me harder than the physical violence that followed.

Brother Khaled, whose conversion story had moved us to tears, whose baptism we had planned for the following month, whose supposed persecution by his family had earned our sympathy and support was the Judas who had sold us all.

I caught his eye for just a moment, and what I saw there wasn’t guilt or remorse, but cold satisfaction at a job well done.

They threw us to the ground like criminals, forcing our faces against the cold concrete floor while they zip tied our hands behind our backs.

The plastic restraints cut into my wrists as officers pressed their knees into our backs, grinding us into the dust while they screamed questions about other Christians and secret churches.

Sister Mariam cried out in pain as a particularly brutal officer twisted her arm, demanding the names of believers who weren’t present that evening.

The basement that had been our heaven became our hell in the span of 30 seconds.

Him books and Bibles were scattered across the floor, some torn and trampled under the heavy boots of our copters.

The communion bread we had shared in love was crushed into crumbs, mixed with the spilled grape juice that looked disturbingly like blood and the harsh glare of the officer’s flesh lights.

Our circle of chairs was overturned, creating a coic obstacle course that the police navigated while dragging us toward the exit.

Loading us into the police vans felt like being fed into the mouth of a beast that would devour everything we held dear.

They separated us into different vehicles, breaking up the fellowship that had sustained us through months of secret worship.

As the van doors slammed shut, cutting off the basement light, I found myself pressed against brother Hassan and sister Sarah.

The three of us bound and helpless as we began the journey that would lead us to death row.

As we drove through the nighttime streets of Jedha, I saw my life as I knew it ending through the small barred window of the police van.

The city lights blurred past us like shooting stars.

each one representing freedoms and dreams that were disappearing forever.

I thought about my father discovering his son’s betrayal of Islam.

My mother’s shame when the neighbors learned of my apostasy and the disgrace I had brought upon my family’s name.

The last glimpse of freedom came through that van window as we passed the mosque where my father still served as imam.

The minate stood silhouetted against the starfield sky, calling the faithful to prayer as it had for centuries.

But I was no longer among those who would answer its call.

I belong to Jesus Christ now.

And that belonging would either cost me my life or reveal God’s miraculous power to save.

Either way, there was no turning back from the path that would lead us to to an execution courtyard and a divine appointment with the supernatural.

For 43 days, they tried to break me in ways that would have destroyed the man I used to be.

The interrogation room was a windowless concrete box painted the color of dried blood with a single fluorescent light that flickered constantly and created shadows that danced across the walls like demons.

They brought me every morning at precisely 6:00, shuckling my ankles to a metal chair that was bolted to the floor.

The interrogator was a thin man with cold eyes who spoke in a voice that never rose above a whisper, making his threats all the more terrifying.

Daily questioning about other Christians became a ritual of endurance that tested every fiber of my faith.

They wanted names, addresses, meeting place, and financial supporters of the underground church network.

The interrogator would lean across the metal table between us, his breath smelling of cigarettes and hatred, demanding to know about believers who hadn’t been captured in our basement raid.

He showed me photographs of Christians from other cities, asking if I recognized them or had contact with their groups.

The pressure to renounce faith and return to Islam came in waves that crushed against my soul with relentless force.

They brought Islamic scholars to debate with me.

Men with impressive credentials who quoted the Quran with expertise and passion.

These learned men spoke eloquently about the beauties of Islam and the errors of Christianity, trying to convince me that my conversion had been a temporary madness brought on by Western propaganda and satanic deception.

The interrogator offered me everything I had lost and more if I would simply return to the faith of my fathers.

Freedom was the first carrot he dungled before my eyes, describing how I could walk out of that prison and returned to my family if I would just admit my mistake and embrace Islam again.

Money came next with promises of a government job and financial security that would make me wealthy beyond my previous dreams.

My old life beckoned to me through his words, painted in colors more beautiful than I remembered.

They brought my father to visit me on the 20th day of my captivity, hoping that family pressure would accomplish what torture had failed to achieve.

When I saw him enter the visiting room, his beard whiter than I remembered and his eyes filled with tears, my heart nearly shattered.

He begged me to reconsider my apostasy, not just for my own sake, but for the honor of our family name.

The shame I had brought upon him was written across his face like a wound that would never heal.

My mother came the following day, weeping so violently that the guards had to bring her a chair before she collapsed.

She pleaded with me in the voice that had sung lullabies during my childhood, reminding me of all the Islamic teachings she had poured into my young heart.

Through her tears, she painted pictures of the paradise I was forfeitting and the hellfire I was choosing through my stubborn adherence to Christianity.

Her pain was almost unbearable to witness, but I could not deny the Jesus who had saved my soul.

Physical torture began when psychological pressure failed to move me.

They used techniques designed to inflict maximum pain without leaving permanent marks that might draw international attention.

Electric shocks coursed through my body while they demanded that to I curse the name of Jesus Christ.

Stress positions left me hanging from ceiling chains for hours while my muscles screamed in agony.

Sleep deprivation became a weapon they wielded expertly, keeping me awake for days until hallucinations began to blur the line between reality and nightmare.

What would take to make you deny Jesus? That question haunted my darkest moments when pain overwhelmed my ability to think clearly.

I discovered that faith under pressure reveals what kind of foundation your beliefs are built upon.

When comfort and safety are stripped away.

When family relationships are severed.

When physical agony clouds your judgement.

What remains is either solid rock or shifting sand.

I found that Jesus had become more real to me than the torture, more present than my persecutors.

The worst part wasn’t the physical pain, but the isolation from my fellow believers who had been scattered to different wings of the prison complex for weeks.

I didn’t know if they were alive or dead, if they had broken under pressure or remained faithful to Christ.

The silence was deafening after months of regular fellowship and mutual encouragement, I clung to memories of our basement worship services.

Like a drowning man, clutches driftwood in stormy sea.

Prayer became my lifeline during those endless days of questioning and torture.

I developed the ability to commune with Jesus even while interrogators screamed in my face or electricity shot through my nervous system.

In the deepest moments of agony, I would retreat into my spirit where Christ’s presence shone brighter than any torture chamber light.

He never promised the pain would stop, but he promised never to leave me alone in it.

When they brought us together for trial after 43 days of separation, I wept with joy at seeing my spiritual family again.

The reunion took place in the courthouse holding cell, a cramped space barely large enough for 25 people, but it felt like heaven to be surrounded once again by brothers and sisters who had endured similar trials and remained faithful.

We had all lost weight and showed signs of our individual or our eyes still shone with the light of Christ.

The physical toll on other believers was shocking to witness after our weeks apart.

Brother Ahmad had lost 30 pounds and walked with a limp from his interrogation sessions.

Sister Fatima’s hair had turned completely gray and her hands shook constantly from the trauma she had endured.

Several of our members showed signs of beatings with faded bruises and healing cuts that told stories of suffering none of us wanted to describe in detail.

We were broken in body but unbroken in spirit.

Like soldiers who had survived the same brutal battle and lived to tell about it despite everything they had done to us.

Despite the pressure and pain and promises, we were still followers of Jesus Christ.

That realization filled our cramped holding cell with a joy that our coptors could not understand or destroy.

We had passed through fire and emerged as purified gold.

The judge read our charges like a death sentence.

His voice echoing through the packed courtroom where government officials and religious leaders had gathered to witness our condemnation.

Apostasy from Islam carried an automatic death penalty under Saudi law and spreading Christianity was considered an act of treason against the Islamic State.

Additional charges included corrupting the youth, undermining state religion, and conspiring against public order.

Each of us was given one final chance to recount our faith and return to Islam before sentencing.

The judge explained that Islamic law provided mercy for those who repented of their apostasy and demonstrated genuine return to the true faith.

All we had to do was speak the shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith, and renounce Jesus Christ as a false prophet.

25 opportunities for freedom stood before us, like doors we could choose to walk through.

25 consecutive refusals rang through that courtroom like shots from a firing squad.

One by one, we stood and declared our allegiance to Jesus Christ, knowing that each declaration sealed our faith.

Brother Hassan spoke first, his voice strong despite his physical weakness from weeks of torture.

Sister Mariam followed, her voice trembling but determined.

When my turn came, I looked directly at the judge and said clearly, “I am a follower of Jesus Christ, and I will serve him until my last breath.

” When Sister Fatima, our eldest member at 62 years old, stood with tears streaming down her face and declared, “I choose Jesus.

I knew we all would.

” Her courage in that moment inspired the rest of us who had not yet spoken.

If this grandmother could face death for Christ after enduring weeks of brutal interrogation, how could any of us do less? Her voice became our rallying cry, echoing in our hearts as the remaining believers made their declarations.

The fell 25 times, one for each of us, sentenced to death by public beheading.

The sound reverberated through the courtroom like thunder, announcing a coming storm.

With each strike of wood against wood, the judge pronounced another death sentence for the crime of following Jesus Christ in the Islamic Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

The gallery erupted in shouts of approval from religious extremists who viewed our execution as a holy duty.

My mother screamed from the gallery when my sentence was pronounced.

A sound of anguish that cut through my heart like a sword.

I could see her collapsing into my father’s arms, overcome by grief for the son she was about to lose.

Yet even as her cries echoed through the courtroom, I felt supernatural peace washing over my soul like oil poured on troubled waters.

God’s presence was so real in that moment that the death sentence felt less like an ending and more like a beginning.

Transport back to death row felt like a victory parade for soldiers returning from a successful mission.

We had stood firm under pressure, remained faithful through torture, and declared our allegiance to Christ in the face of certain death.

As the prison van carried us toward our final destination, we sang hymns in whispered voices that only we could hear.

The guards thought they were transporting condemned criminals, but we knew we were going home to be with Jesus.

We had 30 days to prepare to meet our savior.

And every one of those days would become a gift from God.

God turned death row into our greatest revival, transforming a place designed for despair into a sanctuary of supernatural peace.

The death row wing us in adjacent cells.

Each one a concrete box barely large enough for a sleeping mat and the toilet.

The walls were thick.

But we discovered that by pressing our faces against the small gaps where the cell doors met their frames, we could communicate in whispered conversations that the guards couldn’t hear.

What had been intended to isolate us for our final weeks became God’s provision for continued fellowship.

Adjacent cells became our new church building with whispered communication replacing the gathered worship we had known in the outside world.

Brother Hassan’s cell was to my right and through the gap in our shared wall, we developed a system of soft topping that allowed us to pray together.

Even when verbal communication was too risky.

Three short ts meant pray for me.

Five long ts meant praise God.

And the series of rapid ts meant guards coming.

This simple code became our lifeline during the endless hours of waiting.

We shared final testimonies and encouragements through those concrete walls.

Each person taking turns to whisper their story of God’s faithfulness during our imprisonment.

Sister Miriam, whose cell was three doors down from mine, had experienced visions of angels during her worst moments of torture.

Brother David had found his Arabic Bible verses coming to life in his memory, sustaining him when physical food was scarce.

Each testimony strengthened the rest of us, proving that God was still working miracles even in our darkest circumstances.

The prayers we offered for our families carried a weight unlike any intercession I had ever experienced.

We prayed for parents who would soon lose their children.

For spouses who would become widows and widowers, for children who would grow up without their Christian mothers and fathers.

I spent hours whispering prayers for my own parents, asking God to reveal himself to them through my death if he hadn’t through my life.

The love I felt for my family grew stronger rather than weaker as our execution date approached.

We prayed for our persecutors with a forgiveness that could only come from Christ himself.

Each night we lifted up the interrogators who had tortured us, the judge who had sentenced us, and the guards who watched over our final days.

Most surprisingly, we prayed for brother Khaled, the betrayer whose deception had led to our capture.

Forgiving him felt impossible in human strength.

But Christ’s love flowing through us made the impossible become reality.

Even brother Khaled received our prayers and forgiveness.

Though speaking his name required supernatural grace that came only from Jesus.

I remembered how how excited he had seemed about Christianity, how eagerly he had asked questions about our faith, how convincingly he had portrayed a seeking heart.

The depth of his deception still stung, but hatred would have poisoned our final days and dishonored our savior.

We chose to pray that God would convict his heart and bring him to genuine faith.

I wrote letters I knew would never be delivered, pouring my heart onto paper, but would likely be burned by prison authorities.

The letter to my father was the hardest to write, explaining why I had chosen Christ over formally approval and why my death was not tragedy, but a promotion to glory.

I wrote about the empty feeling that had plagued me during my Islamic years and the fullness of life I had found in Jesus.

Every word was carefully chosen to honor both my earthly father and my heavenly father.

The letter to my mother overflowed with gratitude for her love and care throughout my childhood.

while gently explaining that I had found the truth she had always taught me to seek.

I thanked her for raising me to value spiritual things, even though my spiritual journey had led me away from Islam and toward Christ.

I told her that my love for her had grown stronger, not weaker, since becoming a Christian because Jesus had taught me what true love really meant.

I told my I found the truth he always taught me to seek, hoping that somehow these words would reach his heart, even if the letter never reached his hands.

Throughout my childhood, he had emphasized the importance of seeking truth above tradition, of following God, even when it was difficult.

I wanted him to understand that my conversion to Christianity wasn’t a rejection of his teaching, but the ultimate fulfillment of it.

I had found the God he had always encouraged me to pursue.

Forgiveness flowed from our cells like rivers of grace, reaching everyone who had played a role in our imprisonment and coming execution.

We forgave the religious police who had raided our basement sanctuary.

We forgave the prison guards who treated us like dangerous criminals.

We forgave the government officials who had crafted the laws that made our faith a capital offense.

This forgiveness wasn’t weakness but the ultimate demonstration of Christ’s power working through broken human hearts.

Are there people in your life who need to hear about Jesus before it’s too late? This question haunted me as I considered the family members and friends I would never see again in this life.

I thought about my childhood friends who were still trapped in the spiritual emptiness I had escaped.

My cousins who had never heard the gospel clearly presented.

My neighbors who knew me only as the imam’s son who had brought disgrace to his family’s name.

The supernatural peace that filled ourselves grew stronger as our execution date approached.

Defying every natural instinct for self-preservation, instead of becoming more anxious as death drew near, I found myself experiencing a calm that surpassed human understanding.

Sleep came easily despite the circumstances and my appetite remained normal even though each meal might be among my last.

This peace became a testimony to the guards who couldn’t understand how condemned men could sleep so soundly.

Visions and and dreams visited multiple believers during our final weeks, creating a spiritual atmosphere that transformed death row into a place of divine encounter.

Brother Hassan saw angels surrounding ourselves, standing guard over us like centuries protecting precious cargo.

Sister Sarah dreamed of a great feast where all of us sat at a table with Jesus.

Our earthly sufferings forgotten in the joy of heavenly fellowship.

These supernatural experiences filled us with anticipation rather than dread.

Brother Hassan saw angels surrounding ourselves in a vision that he described to us in careful whispers during the darkest hours before dawn.

According to his account, these heavenly beings stood at attention outside each sail door, their wings folded and their faces turned upward in worship.

They carried swords of light and wore armor that shone like polish silver, ready to escort us home when our earthly journey ended.

This vision comforted all of us, reminding us that we were not forgotten by heaven.

We stopped fearing death and started celebrating life.

As our perspective shifted from earthly loss to heavenly gain, death row became a place of preparation for the greatest adventure of our existence, a launching pad for our journey into eternity with Christ.

Instead of counting down the days we had left, we began counting up the days until we would see Jesus face to face.

The guards noticed our joy and uh couldn’t understand how people facing execution could love and sing.

January 23rd, 2020 dawned clear and cold.

The execution day that had loomed in our future for 30 days.

I woke before the the call to dawn prayer, feeling more rested than I had since childhood.

The peace in my cell was so thick I could almost touch it like a blanket of God’s presence wrapped around my shoulders.

Today was the day I would meet my savior.

And that knowledge filled me with excitement rather than terror.

final prayers and the worship in ourselves created a symphony of whispered praise that rose from death row like incense before God’s throne.

Each of us spent the early morning hours in communion with Christ, preparing our hearts for the transition from this life to the next.

We sang hymns so quietly that only God could hear the melodies.

But our spirits soared with volume that shook the foundations of hell itself.

We sang Amazing Grace one last time.

Our voices barely audible, but our hearts singing loud enough to reach every corner of heaven.

The familiar words carried new meaning as we prepared to experience the ultimate grace of crossing from death into life.

Each verse became a prayer.

Each note a declaration of faith.

Each pause a moment to savor the presence of Jesus in our final hours of earthly existence.

Transport to the execution facility felt like a wedding procession carrying a bride to meet her beloved.

The guards expected to see fear and desperation in our faces.

But instead, they witnessed joy and anticipation that confused and disturbed them.

As the prison van carried us through the streets of Riyad toward the execution ground, I gazed out the barred windows at the world I was about to leave behind, feeling grateful for every moment God had given me.

I had never felt more alive than on my way to die, because I knew that death would be the doorway into the presence of the one who had loved me enough to save me.

Every breath felt like a gift.

Every heartbeat a drum roll announcing the greatest moment of my existence.

The other believers in the van radiated the same supernatural calm.

25 people about to die who had never been more fully alive.

They lined us up in the sand.

25 martyrs to be in a courtyard that had witnessed countless executions, but had never seen anything like what was about to unfold.

The execution ground was a large open space surrounded by high concrete walls with sand that had been raaked smooth for the morning scream ceremony.

Government officials sat in shaded viewing areas while guards formed the perimeter around the execution site.

Television cameras were positioned to record our deaths as a warning to other potential converts from Islam.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the courtyard as we were forced to kneel in a perfect line, each of us exactly three feet from the next person.

I found myself positioned between brother Hassan and sister Miriam, drawing strength from their presence, even though we couldn’t speak or touch.

The sand was surprisingly cool beneath my knees, and I remember thinking how strange it was to to notice such a small detail in such a momentous hour.

Blindfolds were placed over our eyes with ceremonial precision.

Each black cloth tied firmly enough to block out all light, but not tight enough to cause immediate discomfort.

The executioner wanted us conscious and aware when the sword fell.

As darkness covered my vision, my other senses became heightened.

I could hear the whispered prayers of my fellow believers, the shuffle of in sand and the distant murmur of the crowd that had gathered to witness our deaths.

Final prayers were whispered so softly that only God could hear the words rising from our hearts like incense before his throne.

I prayed for my family one last time, asking God to comfort them in their grief and to reveal himself to them through my death.

I prayed for the church in Saudi Arabia that our sacrifice would somehow plant seeds of faith in hostile soil.

Most importantly, I praised Jesus for saving my soul and giving me the privilege of dying for his name.

The crowd of officials and witnesses grew larger as the appointed time approached.

their excited conversations creating a buzz of anticipation that filled the morning air.

I could hear religious leaders discussing Islamic law and the necessity of our punishment.

Government officials spoke in host tones about the message our executions would send to other potential apostates.

News reporters prepared their equipment to broadcast our deaths throughout the kingdom.

I could hear the executioners footsteps uh in the sand as he made his final preparations.

The soft scraping sound of his boots against the ground growing louder as he approached our line.

According to Saudi tradition, he would work methodically from one end of the line to the other.

Each execution performed with clinical precision.

I was positioned seventh in the line, meaning I would watch six of my spiritual family members die before my own turn came.

The executioner was a tall man whose shadow I could sense even through my blindfold as he took his position behind the first victim.

Brother Ahmadi occupied that terrible honor and I could hear his steady breathing as he prepared to become the first martyr of our group.

His voice carried clearly across the courtyard as he spoke his final words.

Jesus Christ is Lord.

Those four words became a bell cry that each of us would repeat as our turn arrived.

I was ready to see Jesus face to face, having spent the past 30 days preparing my heart for this moment of ultimate transition.

Death held no terror for me because I knew that uh the moment my life ended on earth, it would begin in heaven.

The executioner’s sword would be my passport from this broken world into the presence of my savior.

Every breath I drew was borrowed time, and I was grateful for each one.

As the sword was raised above brother Ahmad’s neck, the earth began to shake with a violence that threw everyone in the courtyard to their knees.

The trembling started as a subtle vibration in the sand beneath us, but within seconds, it had become a full earthquake that made the Concrete walls around the execution ground crack and groan.

I could hear people screaming and running for safety as the shaking intensified beyond anything natural.

The ground trembling escalated into supernatural phenomena that defied every law of physics and nature.

What had begun as an earthquake transformed into something far more powerful and purposeful.

The shaking wasn’t random, but rhythmic, like the footsteps of a giant walking across the earth toward our location.

Even through my blindfold, I could sense light beginning to fill the courtyard, growing brighter with each passing second.

The sky darkened at midday, as if night was falling 12 hours early.

Yet brilliant light was somehow shining simultaneously from an invisible source above us.

Guards were shouting in confusion and terror as their instruments failed and their radios went silent.

The darkness wasn’t the absence of light, but the presence of something so bright that it made the sun appear dim.

By comparison, a blinding light appeared above us with an intensity that penetrated even our thick blindfolds, transforming the courtyard into something resembling the throne room of God himself.

The light wasn’t harsh or painful, but warm and welcoming like the embrace of a loving father.

I could feel its rays touching my face and filling my heart with indescribable peace and joy.

A voice like thunder spoke in clear Arabic from the heavens above, echoing off the courtyard walls with such power that windows shattered in nearby buildings.

“These are my children,” the voice declared with authority that silent every human sound in the execution ground.

“Touch them not, for they belong to me.

” Every person present knew immediately that they were hearing the voice of God himself.

The executioner’s sword shattered in his hands like glass hitting concrete.

The blade breaking into a thousand pieces that scuttered across the sand like stars falling from heaven.

The man who had killed hundreds of people over his career stood frozen in terror, his hands still gripping the broken hilt of a weapon that no longer existed.

He would later testify that an invisible force had destroyed his sword the moment he tried to strike.

Even our blindfolds couldn’t hide God’s glory as his uh presence filled the execution ground with power that made the air itself electric.

I could feel the hair on my arms standing up as supernatural energy flowed through the courtyard like water rushing through a broken dam.

The very atmosphere seemed to vibrate with divine presence that was both awesome and comforting.

Guards fell to their knees in terror throughout the courtyard, their weapons cluttering to the ground as they prostrated themselves before the manifest presence of Almighty God.

Men who had never shown fear in their lives were weeping and calling out to Allah for mercy.

Some were speaking in tongues they had never learned, while others could only lie face down in the sand, trembling under the weight of divine glory.

Chaos and uh confusion erupted among the officials as uh they tried to comprehend what was happening in their carefully controlled execution ceremony.

Government leaders who had come to watch us die were now running for their lives.

stumbling over each other in their panic to escape the courtyard.

Religious authorities who had condemned us for our faith were crying out that God was angry with them for their persecution of his people.

The prison warden was weeping and crying, “Allah has spoken.

” As he ordered our immediate release, his hands shaking so violently he could barely remove our restraints.

This man who had overseen countless executions was completely undone by the supernatural intervention he had witnessed.

Later he would uh resign his position and become a secret follower of Jesus Christ.

His life transformed by what he saw that day.

They couldn’t get us out of there fast enough as guards and officials alike fled the courtyard in terror.

Our execution had become their nightmare as the God of heaven had intervened to protect his children.

Within minutes, we went from condemned prisoners to free men and women.

Our death sentences commuted not by human mercy but by divine intervention that no earthly authority could challenge or reverse.

That day, three guards became believers.

After witnessing God’s supernatural power demonstrated before their eyes, these men who had served the Islamic regime faithfully for years could not deny what they had seen and heard in the execution courtyard.

They approached us secretly during our release processing, whispering questions about how to become followers of Jesus Christ.

Their conversions became the first fruits of our miraculous deliverance.

The underground spread of our testimony throughout Saudi Arabia began immediately as witnesses shared what they had seen with family and friends.

Within days, the story of 25 Christians saved from execution by divine intervention was being whispered in every corner of the kingdom.

The government tried to suppress the news, but you cannot hide what God has done publicly.

Our miracle became a seed of faith planted in hearts throughout the nation.

Ask yourself, are you living like someone who has been saved from death? Because that is exactly what every follower of Jesus Christ is.

We were all condemned to die for our sins, standing in our own execution courtyard when Jesus intervened and took our place.

The same God who stopped 25 executions in Saudi Arabia has already stopped yours through the cross of Calvary.

If God can stop an execution in Saudi Arabia, what can he do in your situation? Whatever impossibility you are facing today, whatever mountain stands in your path, whatever enemy threatens your peace, remember that our God specializes in supernatural intervention.

The same power that shattered an executioner’s sword can shutter every weapon formed against you.

The same Jesus who saved 25 condemned Christians wants to save you from whatever is threatening to destroy your life, your family, your dreams, or your future.

He didn’t save us because we were perfect, but because we were his children.

If you belong to him, no earthly power can ultimately harm you.

Your story is still being written.

And God may have plot twists planned that will amaze everyone watching.

My name is Mansour and I should be dead.

But Jesus had uh other plans that revealed his glory to a nation that desperately needed to see his power.

My execution became my testimony.

My death sentence became my platform for proclaiming God’s goodness.

What the enemy meant for evil, God used for good, turning our darkest hour into his brightest miracle.

The question isn’t whether God can save you from whatever you are facing.

The question is whether you will let him demonstrate his power through your situation.

I face execution and found eternal life.

What are you facing today that God wants to transform into his glory? Trust him.

Surrender to him and watch him work miracles that will astound everyone who witnesses his intervention in your Life.