My name is Princess Lujene Al-Saba.

I was 25 years old when everything changed on a quiet morning in Kuwait City.

I had been a devoted Muslim all my life.

Raised inside a royal system that shaped every breath I took.

I never imagined that a single hidden book could put my life in danger.

But that morning, guards stormed into my private residence and discovered a Bible inside my room.

And in Kuwait’s royal family, that was enough to end my life.

I was summoned before a royal tribunal, accused of apostasy, and sentenced to elimination unless I burned the Bible myself.

But Jesus had other plans for my life.

I was born into luxury that most people will never see.

Yet even surrounded by riches, I felt a hunger in my soul I could not explain.

And the journey to fill that emptiness is the reason you’re hearing my story today.

Contrary to what many believe, not all royal daughters grow up in the main palaces.

Instead, I lived in a private royal estate reserved exclusively for princesses known as the Al-Masila Royal Residence, located in a quiet, heavily guarded area near the outskirts of Kuwait City.

My earliest memories are not of grand public halls or crowded receptions, but of peaceful mornings in a quiet villa surrounded by tall date palms and white stone pathways that only members of the royal family were allowed to walk.

Though the residence was luxurious, it carried a strictness that shaped my life from the moment I could walk.

Every rule, every lesson, every expectation was rooted in one reality.

I was a princess, a representative of the Al-Saba name, and my life belonged to tradition long before it belonged to me.

From childhood, my identity was shaped around Islam, discipline, and the honor of my family.

My routine began each day before sunrise when the sound of the adhan drifted softly through the courtyard speakers.

My caretaker, a kind but very strict woman named Nura al- Shamari would wake me before the call finished, insisting that a princess must be the first to rise for prayer.

She sat beside me each morning as I washed my face with cold water, adjusted my tiny prayer scarf, and performed the prayer with slow, deliberate movements.

These mornings became the foundation of my life.

My mother often visited the residence, but her responsibilities kept her in the main palace most days.

My father, a respected shake within the extended Alsaba family, visited even less frequently.

Yet somehow, I never felt unloved.

I simply understood that duty separated us.

And the palace system raised royal children differently from the rest of the nation.

My life was shaped more by caretakers, teachers, and imams than by parents.

As I grew older, the expectation surrounding my devotion to Islam intensified.

Tutors from respected mosques across Kuwait came to the Al-Masila residents to teach me Tajid, Tapsir, and the rules of Islamic juristprudence.

They were not gentle teachers.

They insisted on perfection, perfect recitation, perfect posture, perfect memorization.

By age 12, I had memorized many chapters of the Quran.

And the imams praised my discipline.

They told my father I possessed a rare spiritual seriousness for someone so young, and he repeated their words proudly whenever he visited.

These compliments made me feel valued and I worked even harder to meet every expectation placed upon me.

I prayed five times a day without fail, fasted with complete devotion during Ramadan, and avoided any form of distraction or entertainment that might pull me away from religious discipline.

In my mind, devotion to Allah became my identity, my purpose, and the source of my dignity as a princess.

Life in the princess residence was both beautiful and restrictive.

The villas were quiet, decorated with cream colored marble floors, traditional Kuwaiti art, and libraries filled with Islamic texts and Arabic literature.

From the outside, it looked like a dream.

Gardens trimmed to perfection, fountains with soft lights at night, and guards stationed discreetly behind the hedges and gates.

But inside, life followed a strict pattern that never changed.

After morning prayers, and Quran recitation, I attended lessons in etiquette, historical studies, political behavior, and cultural representation.

These lessons were designed to prepare me for future public appearances, charity work, and roles in women’s organizations across the country.

Every movement was monitored.

Every interaction with staff was recorded.

Every behavior reflected on my family.

Even my laughter had to be controlled, my speech refined, and my friendships supervised by palace officials who reported directly to the royal court.

Despite the pressure, I embraced my role with pride.

When I turned 19, the royal court began preparing me for public responsibilities.

I attended events in Salmia, Hawaii and Jahra, encouraging young Kuwaiti girls to pursue education, confidence and modesty.

I wore elegant abayas and hijabs chosen by palace stylists.

And whenever I spoke in public, whether in schools, charity gatherings or cultural centers, girls looked at me with admiration.

Many of them saw me as an example of a devoted Muslim woman with strength, dignity, and a deep connection to Allah.

Their admiration motivated me to maintain a perfect image.

I never allowed doubts to show.

I never questioned traditions.

I believed that being a princess required absolute loyalty to Islam and to the expectations of my family.

And for years, that identity sustained me.

My devotion only grew stronger as I matured.

I spent long evenings in the Al-Masila library reading classical Islamic texts with my tutors.

I memorized hadiths, studied the writings of respected scholars, and learned the history of Kuwait’s Islamic movements.

I felt proud whenever an imam praised my understanding.

They told me that many young people struggled to maintain spiritual discipline in a modern world filled with distractions, but that I remained steady and unwavering.

I carried those words in my heart like a badge of honor.

In my eyes, my devotion was the proof that I deserved my position as a princess.

It was the one thing no one could question.

I was certain that no temptation, no ideology, and no foreign influence could ever challenge my faith in Allah.

Yet, even with all my devotion, there were moments when I felt a quiet emptiness inside.

An emptiness I never spoke about.

In the silence of my room, after the last prayer of the night, I sometimes wondered why I felt incomplete.

I reminded myself that this was normal, that humans always felt some degree of longing, no matter how blessed they were.

Whenever I felt that emptiness, I pushed myself deeper into prayer and study.

I convinced myself that more devotion would fill the gap, that if I memorized one more sura or spent more hours reviewing taps, the emptiness would disappear.

And sometimes, for a while, it did.

But it always returned and I always ignored it, believing it was a test from Allah, a reminder to keep pushing myself towards spiritual excellence.

By my early 20s, the royal court began involving me more in social responsibilities.

I visited cultural centers, attended conferences on women’s development, and participated in charity events for families in need across Kuwait.

Every appearance strengthened my public image and people often commented that I represented the ideal blend of modern elegance and traditional Islamic devotion.

They admired my modesty, my speech, and my commitment to the values of Kuwait.

Young women wrote letters to the princess residents expressing how much they looked up to me.

Their admiration felt overwhelming sometimes, but it reinforced the idea that my life was meant to reflect the beauty of Islam to the nation.

I carried that responsibility as if it were a crown made of glass, fragile, precious, and impossible to set down.

Deep inside, however, I still felt a subtle ache, a longing for something I could never explain.

It was not rebellion.

It was not dissatisfaction.

It was simply a quiet sense that something was missing.

A silence inside me that was never truly filled no matter how many prayers I performed.

But because I had no language for that feeling, I buried it beneath more discipline, more studies, and more devotion.

After all, doubt was not permitted in my world.

A princess did not question her religious path.

A princess did not seek anything beyond what tradition offered her.

So I told myself that the emptiness was a weakness I had to overcome.

At that time everything in my life seemed stable.

My days were predictable, my responsibilities clear, and my image polished.

I fully believed that the path before me was set, unchangeable, and blessed by Allah.

I never imagined that anything in my life could shift the certainty I carried so deeply.

I felt safe in my understanding of Allah.

Protected by tradition and anchored by the rules that had shaped me since childhood.

There was nothing in my world that suggested danger.

Nothing that hinted that my faith would soon be tested in ways I was completely unprepared to face.

nothing that warned me that the ground beneath my life, built so carefully on devotion and duty, would soon crack open.

If someone had told me then that a single object found inside my own residence, would change everything I believed, I would have laughed.

If anyone had suggested that my devotion would be challenged by something completely forbidden and unexpected, I would have dismissed it instantly.

But life has a way of revealing truth at the moment you least expect it.

And mine began with something small, quiet, and hidden.

Something that waited for me in the very place I believed was the safest in the world.

My room inside the Al-Masiela royal residence.

I did not know that my world was about to shift.

I did not know that the faith I clung to so tightly would soon collide with something far greater than anything I had ever been taught.

I was certain of my identity, certain of my purpose, certain of my devotion, but certainty can disappear in an instant.

And mine did the day I discovered something in my home that no princess of Kuwait should ever possess.

I remember the exact afternoon my life took a turn I never saw coming.

It was a quiet Tuesday, the kind of day where everything in the Al-Masila royal residence moved slowly under the warm Kuwaiti sun.

I had just finished an early charity meeting in Salwa and returned home to prepare for a lesson with my Quran tutor.

The villa was unusually still.

The hallways empty except for the soft hum of the air conditioner echoing through the marble floors.

I walked through the main sitting room on my way to my private quarters, mentally reviewing the topics I intended to study that evening.

There was nothing remarkable about that moment, nothing that warned me I was about to encounter something that would shake the very foundation of my faith.

But life often changes quietly in places where you least expect it.

and mine changed on an ordinary afternoon in a quiet room I had walked through a thousand times.

As I stepped into my private lounge, I noticed something out of place on the corner of my cream colored sofa.

It was a book, black, slightly worn, and pressed awkwardly between two decorative cushions.

I never allowed anyone to move.

At first, I assumed it belonged to one of the housemmaids who might have accidentally left it behind while cleaning.

I moved closer, intending to return it to the staff.

But as I reached for the book, something in my spirit tightened.

The cover was too familiar in its shape.

Too distinctive in its thickness.

My breath caught in my chest before I even turned it fully.

And when I lifted the front cushion, the golden letters on the cover confronted me with a reality I had never imagined would enter my home.

Holy Bible.

Two simple words.

Yet they felt like a storm crashing against everything I believed.

My hands froze, trembling slightly as I stared at the forbidden book, resting in my palm like a dangerous secret.

For a long moment, I could not breathe.

My eyes were fixed on the title, unable to look away, unable to process what I was holding.

In Kuwait, and especially within the royal family, possessing a Bible was far more serious than simply breaking a rule.

It was a threat to identity, to faith, to loyalty.

It was an act viewed as foreign, dangerous, and deeply offensive.

Even touching one was considered a step toward corruption.

I knew the rules well.

I knew the consequences even better.

My father had lectured us many times about avoiding anything that could open a door to disbelief.

My tutors had warned us that Christian scriptures were distorted and misleading.

My caretakers had always emphasized that a princess must protect the honor of her family by avoiding any forbidden influence.

Yet here I was holding the very object I had been taught to fear since childhood.

My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the silence of the room.

My first instinct was to call security, report it, destroy it, do what any faithful Muslim daughter of the royal family was expected to do.

But something stopped me.

Something I could not explain.

Then instead of dropping the Bible or pushing it away, I found myself clutching it tighter as if my hands were unwilling to let go.

A strange warmth spread through my fingers.

not painful, but unsettling, like touching something familiar yet unknown.

I glanced around the room anxiously, half expecting someone to burst through the door and accuse me of wrongdoing.

The air felt heavier.

The room seemed smaller.

It was as if the moment itself had paused, watching me.

I forced myself to breathe and whisper a prayer under my breath, asking Allah for protection from whatever temptation this book represented.

Yet even as I prayed, I could not convince myself to put it down.

The curiosity was too strong, too sudden, too deep.

I moved quickly, almost instinctively, as if my body acted before my mind formed a plan.

I walked across the room and locked to the door behind me.

something I rarely ever did.

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, holding the Bible close against my chest, as if hiding it from the very walls.

My heart was beating so violently it felt like it might burst.

I took several deep breaths, whispering, asking Allah for forgiveness for even holding the book.

But no matter how many times I whispered the words, I could not shake the feeling that something was pulling me toward it.

Something gentle, not forceful, something I had never felt before.

I opened the first page slowly, my hands trembling so much I could barely control the movement.

The pages were thin, delicate, a stark contrast to the thick Quranic pages I had grown up handling.

I scanned the introduction, but my mind was too overwhelmed to process anything clearly.

It took several minutes before my mind calmed enough to focus on the actual text.

I turned to the first chapter of Genesis, not knowing where else to begin.

The words were simple, almost poetic.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

I paused reading the sentence again slowly and again.

I expected to feel discomfort, anger or rejection, but instead something unexpected happened.

The words did not feel foreign or offensive.

They felt strangely peaceful, familiar even.

I read more.

Light, darkness, earth, waters, living creatures.

Each sentence pulled me deeper into a narrative I had never allowed myself to explore.

It felt like someone was telling me a story.

Not arguing with me, not challenging me, simply speaking to a part of my soul that had been silent for years.

When I finally looked up from the page, I realized nearly 40 minutes had passed.

It felt like seconds.

Fear washed over me as soon as I realized how much time I had spent reading something forbidden.

I closed the Bible quickly and hid it beneath my mattress, terrified that someone might walk in and see it.

I paced the room in panic, whispering prayers for forgiveness, begging Allah to cleanse my heart from whatever influence I might have absorbed.

And yet, beneath the fear, a quiet voice whispered inside me, a whisper I tried desperately to ignore.

It said, “Read again.

” I spent the rest of the evening trying to silence that voice.

I forced myself to study my Quran lesson, but the words blurred on the page.

I tried to pray, but my mind kept drifting back to the sentences I had read.

That night, I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Bible cover glowing faintly under my mattress, like a secret calling out to me.

The following night, I held myself back for as long as I could, determined not to let curiosity consume me.

But when the entire residence quieted down and the last footsteps faded from the hallways, I found myself reaching under the mattress again.

My hands trembled, but this time not from fear alone.

There was anticipation, too.

A strange longing that made no sense.

I opened to a different section, unsure where to start, and landed in the book of Psalms.

The first verse I read shook something deep inside me.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

I read it again, then again.

The words felt soft but powerful, as if touching a fragile wound in my heart I had never acknowledged.

For the first time in my life, I felt something inside me break open.

Not in pain, but in recognition, as if the emptiness I had buried for years was suddenly being addressed by someone who understood it completely.

Night after night, my secret routine continued.

Each day, I lived my public role as a princess with perfect devotion, praying, serving, teaching young women, upholding Islamic values as expected.

But every night I returned to the forbidden book beneath my mattress.

I read slowly, cautiously, terrified someone might discover my secret.

I read about creation, love, forgiveness, and a God who felt close, personal, gentle.

I read about Jesus, a name I had only heard in Islamic teachings as a prophet, never as anything more.

But in the Bible, he was different.

He was compassionate, forgiving, full of authority and love in ways I had never seen described before.

My heart did not know how to respond.

My beliefs told me to reject everything I read.

But my soul, something deeper than belief, felt drawn to the words with a pull I could not explain.

The dreams began in the third week.

They were not dramatic or frightening.

They were peaceful.

I saw a figure in white, never speaking, never moving toward me, yet always present, always looking at me with eyes that felt both kind and powerful.

I woke from those dreams with tears on my cheeks, unable to explain why.

Each dream left me feeling comforted yet shaken, as if someone was trying to reach me through the deepest layers of my heart.

I told no one.

Not Nora, not my tutors, not my sisters who visited occasionally, not even myself fully.

I pretended the dreams meant nothing.

But every night they returned, growing clearer each time.

As the days passed, the conflict inside me grew stronger.

I loved Islam.

I respected my upbringing.

I believed in Allah with all my heart.

Yet the more I read the Bible, the more I felt something shifting inside me, something I had no words for, something I had no desire to acknowledge.

I felt guilty, afraid, confused.

I begged Allah to remove the curiosity from my heart, to silence the voice that kept pulling me back to the book.

But nothing changed.

If anything, the longing grew deeper.

The emptiness I had always carried now had a name.

It was being filled, not fully, but enough for me to realize that something new was happening in my soul.

I tried to stop reading.

I promised myself that I would not touch the Bible again.

I even hid it in a box beneath my wardrobe, hoping the distance would weaken the pool.

But each night, when the residence fell quiet, I returned to it.

I read in whispers.

Under dim light, with my bedroom door locked, I cried sometimes, overwhelmed by the words and frightened by how deeply they touched me.

I wondered if something was wrong with me, if I was weak, if I was being deceived.

But no matter how many arguments I raised in my mind, none could quiet the truth I felt growing inside me.

Something in those pages felt alive.

Something in them felt real in a way I had never experienced before.

It was during one of those late night readings that I encountered a verse in the Gospel of Matthew that struck me so deeply I could not stop thinking about it for days.

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

The words pierced me like a whisper meant specifically for my soul.

I realized then that all the years of devotion, discipline and duty had not brought me rest.

They had brought pressure, responsibility and constant performance.

But rest, true rest, was something I had never known.

And here in a forbidden book, someone was offering it to me with a simplicity that shattered me.

That night, for the first time in my life, I spoke out loud into the darkness of my room.

Not in Arabic, not in ritual prayer, not with memorized words.

I whispered, “God, if this is you, show me.

” I did not know what I meant.

I did not understand what I was asking.

But the moment the words left my mouth, I felt something shift inside me.

a quiet stirring like a door opening somewhere deep within my soul.

I had no idea then how dangerous that whisper was.

I had no idea that my secret nights of reading were pushing me toward a fate that could cost me everything.

My family, my identity, my safety, even my life.

All I knew was that the forbidden book hidden under my mattress was changing me and I was powerless to stop it.

I didn’t know that the night I whispered, “God, if this is you, show me,” was the same night everything in my life began moving toward exposure.

I woke the next morning with a heaviness in my chest, as if something unseen was shifting in the atmosphere of the Al-Masila residence.

The villa felt different, not in appearance, but in mood.

The staff moved quietly, almost nervously, as they prepared for the day.

I tried to ignore the strange feeling and continued my routine, performing my morning prayer and reviewing the list of tasks my assistant had left outside my door.

But underneath everything, I felt anxiety rising like a tide I couldn’t control.

I blamed it on lack of sleep, on the weight of the forbidden secret I had been carrying, on the unsettling dreams I had been having.

I had no idea that the secret I tried so hard to hide was already slipping beyond my control.

After breakfast, I returned to my room to prepare for my Quran session.

I was searching for a pen I had misplaced while studying the previous night.

I pulled drawers open, lifted cushions, and rummaged through my bookshelf.

When I couldn’t find it, I knelt beside my bed to look underneath, and my heart stopped.

The Bible was no longer beneath my mattress.

For a moment, I froze completely.

My breath came out in a sharp, panicked gasp, and the entire room seemed to tilt around me.

I pushed my hair back with shaking hands and checked again, searching frantically under the bed, behind my pillows, inside the wardrobe, in every hiding spot I had ever used.

Nothing.

The book was gone.

A terrible chill ran down my spine as reality confronted me in a flood.

Someone had found it.

Someone had touched the one thing I had tried desperately to keep hidden.

Someone knew.

Before I could even stand, a sharp knock echoed at my door.

Loud, urgent, nothing like the respectful knocks of the staff.

I jumped, my heart racing so fast it hurt.

Without waiting for my response, the door swung open and my younger sister Miam rushed in.

Her face pale and eyes wide with something between shock and terror.

She held something in her hand, gripping it as if it burned her.

When her eyes met mine, they filled instantly with tears, not of sadness, but of fear.

“Line,” she whispered, breathless, shaking.

“What is this? Tell me this isn’t yours.

” She lifted her trembling hand and there it was, the Bible, the forbidden book I had been hiding for weeks.

She held it between two fingers like a dangerous object.

My vision blurred for a moment, my voice disappeared completely.

I stared at her and at the book, unable to form a single word.

The silence between us lasted only seconds, but it felt like a lifetime.

When I finally opened my mouth to speak, she stepped back horrified as if my words might confirm her worst fear.

“You have a Bible?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Do you know what this means? Do you know what they will do if they find out?” She backed toward the door, still staring at me like she was seeing a stranger.

Before I could explain, she turned and ran into the hallway, calling for our mother.

Her scream cut through the quiet halls like an alarm, and within seconds, everything exploded.

Footsteps thundered through the corridor.

Voices rose.

Guards appeared outside my doorway, uncertain and tense, and all I could do was stand frozen in the middle of my room.

Feeling the weight of my entire world collapsing.

My mother was the first to enter.

She pushed past the guards with trembling hands, still wearing her morning abaya, her hair uncovered, a sign of distress I had only seen once in my life.

She rushed to Miriam, who clung to her sobbing and pointing toward me.

My mother followed her gesture, and when her eyes fell on the Bible, she stopped breathing.

Her face drained of all color, her hand rose to her mouth as if trying to hold in a scream.

Then she looked at me not with anger but with disbelief so deep it crushed me.

“Line,” she whispered.

“What is this doing in your room?” Her voice trembled so violently I felt tears sting my own eyes.

I wanted to speak, to explain, to calm her.

But before I could take a step, two of my cousins, both sons of highranking uncles, entered the room behind her, their expressions dark and confused, ready to handle what they believed was a threat.

They took the Bible from my sister’s shaking hand and held it up as if it were evidence in a criminal case.

“Is this yours?” one of them demanded.

His voice echoed against the marble walls.

He wasn’t shouting, but the disappointment and accusation in his tone felt heavier than any scream.

I felt trapped, suffocated, cornered by my own silence.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt locked.

My mother stepped closer and grabbed my shoulders, her fingers trembling.

Lu Jane, answer them, she cried softly.

Tell them this is a misunderstanding.

Tell them this is not yours.

Her tears began falling freely, dripping onto her abaya.

But I couldn’t lie.

Not because I wanted to expose myself, but because something inside me, something that had awakened over the last weeks would not allow me to deny the truth.

So I whispered, barely audible.

It is mine.

The room erupted instantly.

My mother gasped and stumbled backward into Miriam’s arms, who clung to her in horror.

My cousins exchanged shocked, angry glances.

One of them shouted for the guards to close the door.

My sister covered her mouth to keep from screaming.

The guards outside stiffened as the tension crept through the hallway.

In that moment, I understood that my life had shifted into a different reality, a dangerous one.

My cousin approached me with a mix of fear and fury.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

“Who gave it to you? Who are you speaking to?” He fired the questions rapidly, as if trying to uncover a conspiracy.

My mother wiped her tears and whispered prayers under her breath, pleading with Allah to reverse what she was witnessing.

But no one in the room was more terrified than I was.

As I stood shaking, surrounded by my family, my second oldest brother, Fad, stormed into the room, his footsteps heavy with anger.

He must have heard the shouting from downstairs.

He stopped abruptly when he saw the Bible in my cousin’s hands.

His eyes widened, then narrowed with a rage I had never seen in him.

He grabbed the Bible, holding it tightly as if tempted to tear it apart.

What is this filth doing in my sister’s room? He demanded.

His voice was sharp enough to cut through the air.

He turned toward me, breathing heavily.

Tell me you didn’t bring this here.

Tell me you haven’t been reading it.

My mother sobbed harder in the background, whispering, “Ya Allah, protect us.

” I knew then that nothing I said could make this moment any softer.

Nothing could ease the shock that had already taken root.

I tried to explain, my voice cracking as I attempted to steady my breathing.

I found it.

I didn’t know.

I was curious.

But before I could finish, another figure appeared at the door.

The residence director, followed by additional royal guards who had been called due to the commotion.

They stiffened at the sight of the Bible, exchanging looks of alarm.

In our world, a Bible in the possession of a princess was not merely suspicious.

It was dangerous, a matter that could escalate to higher authorities within hours.

My brother stared at me in disbelief.

Then the anger inside him snapped.

He threw the Bible onto my bed as if it were poison.

“Do you realize what you have done?” he asked his voice breaking, “Do you understand what this means for our family, for our name, for our honor? This is not a joke, Lujane.

This is a betrayal.

” Before I could defend myself, the residence director approached cautiously and asked, “Should we report this to the royal court?” His question struck the room like lightning.

My mother instantly cried, “No, please.

No, not yet.

” She moved forward to shield me, gripping my arm tightly as if someone might drag me away at any moment.

My sister clung to her, trembling.

My cousins exchanged hesitant glances.

But my brother, breathing heavily, closed his eyes and whispered, “We cannot hide this.

This will not go away.

” His voice was quiet but final.

My stomach twisted painfully.

I felt dizziness creep up my spine.

The walls of my room felt like they were closing in, suffocating me.

I could not believe this was happening.

The secret I thought I could manage alone had become an inferno, blazing out of control.

A moment later, the one thing I feared most occurred.

My father entered the room.

He arrived earlier than expected, having been notified about something urgent happening at the princess residence.

I will never forget the look in his eyes when he stepped inside and saw everyone gathered around the Bible lying on my bed.

He did not ask questions at first.

He simply stared, stared at the book, stared at me, stared at my mother, crying uncontrollably.

His face hardened with an expression I had never seen before.

disappointment, shock, fear.

What is going on here? He asked, his voice heavy with controlled anger.

My cousin stepped forward and explained in broken sentences what they had found.

My mother begged him to stay calm.

My sister sobbed.

My brother stood stiffly, jaw clenched, eyes full of shame and frustration.

When my father finally turned to me, I felt my legs weaken.

Lu Jane, he said slowly, tell me this is not true.

His tone was not loud, but carried the full weight of authority.

Every fiber of my being wanted to ease his pain, to undo the damage, but I could not lie.

My silence told him everything.

His jaw tightened and he took a step back as if physically impacted by the truth.

“How long?” he asked.

“How long have you had this? How long have you been reading it? His voice trembled with anger and disbelief.

When I whispered, “A few weeks,” something inside him broke.

He brought his hand to his forehead, pacing slowly as if trying to regain control of his emotions.

The room remained dead silent, except for my mother’s sobs.

Then came the worst moment.

My father turned to the guards at the door and gave a command.

I had prayed would never come.

seal her chambers and notify the senior family council.

My mother fell to the floor crying, begging him not to escalate.

My sister tried to hold her up.

My cousins looked away in discomfort.

My brother placed his hand over his face in frustration.

But my father did not change his decision.

The moment he issued that order, I knew my fate was no longer in the hands of my immediate family.

My situation had become larger, more dangerous, more serious than anything I had ever faced.

The discovery of that Bible was no longer seen as a private issue.

It was now a matter of faith, honor, and royal law.

The guard stepped inside and positioned themselves at my door.

My father approached me one final time, his voice tight with pain.

“You have no idea what you have done,” he said quietly.

This is beyond a mistake, Lu Jane.

This is a crisis.

His words felt like a knife.

I wanted to scream that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

That I never intended to hurt my family.

That I was confused and lost and drowning in emotions I could not explain.

But all I could do was stand there shaking, unable to speak.

The room grew colder, quieter, heavier with every breath.

My mother finally stood wiping her tears and held my face in her tremblingo hands.

Why didn’t you talk to me? She whispered.

Why didn’t you tell anyone? I had no answer.

Because I didn’t know how.

The guards escorted my father, my cousins, and the residence director out of the room to discuss the next steps.

My mother and sister were ordered to leave as well.

Before she stepped out, my mother looked back at me with a devastated expression, torn between love and fear.

“Yabinti! What have you done?” she whispered.

Then she walked away slowly, letting the doors close behind her.

When the last footsteps faded, I finally let myself collapse onto the floor, burying my face in my hands.

My world had shattered in a single morning.

Everything I had known, my identity, my family’s trust, my role as a princess had cracked under the weight of a book I never intended to find.

I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning.

Worse decisions, harsher confrontations, and deeper fear were still ahead of me.

When the heavy doors shut behind my family and the guards, the silence inside my room became unbearable.

I remained sitting on the cold marble floor, my legs trembling and my chest tight, unable to comprehend how my life had collapsed so quickly.

Only a few hours earlier, everything seemed normal.

Now the walls felt like they were closing in on me, and the air felt thin, as if the whole world had suddenly shrunk to the size of my room.

I tried to breathe slowly, but each breath shook with panic.

I didn’t know what the senior family council would decide, but I knew it wouldn’t be light or merciful.

The discovery of that Bible was not something they could ignore.

Not in a royal family, not in a country where faith shaped every law and expectation.

I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to calm the anxiety building inside me, but nothing helped.

I felt like I was drowning in fear.

Hours passed, though I couldn’t keep track of time.

The guards outside my door didn’t move or speak.

Their presence felt like a reminder that I was no longer free.

I wanted to stand, to pace, to scream, but I remained frozen.

My mind kept replaying the look on my father’s face, shock, disappointment, pain.

I replayed my mother’s devastated voice, my sister’s trembling hands, my brother’s anger, my cousin’s disbelief.

Their reactions crushed me more than the fear of punishment.

I had not meant to betray anyone.

I had not planned any of this.

I had no intention of leaving Islam or dishonoring my family.

I only wanted to understand what I felt when I read the Bible.

But it no longer mattered what I intended.

Their interpretation was the only one that counted now.

Just before sunset, the guards finally opened the door.

My heart dropped as two of them stepped inside and gestured for me to follow.

My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to stand.

They let me out of my room and through the long hallway of the Al-Masila residence.

Everything around me looked different now.

Colder, heavier, more threatening.

The usual comfort of the place had vanished.

When we reached the main reception hall, I saw my father standing beside several uncles, two royal advisers, and three imams dressed in traditional white garments.

They stood near the long wooden council table, their expressions a grave.

My mother was nowhere in sight, nor were my siblings.

This was not a family discussion.

This was judgment.

My father didn’t speak at first.

He simply studied me, his face stern and unreadable.

One of the senior uncles motioned for me to sit, and I did, my hands trembling in my lap.

The imams watched me carefully and I felt their gaze like a weight pressing against my chest.

My father finally cleared his throat and the entire room shifted into absolute stillness.

Princess Lujine, he began using my full title instead of my name, something he only did in serious matters.

We have been forced to gather today because of a discovery made in your room.

A discovery, as you know, that cannot be ignored.

His voice remained controlled, but beneath it, I could hear the hurt he tried desperately to hide.

“You have been found in possession of a Bible,” he continued.

“This is a violation of our laws, our traditions, and our faith, and it raises questions that must be answered.

” One of the imams stepped forward, a respected religious figure from a major mosque in Kuwait City.

He looked at me with a mixture of sadness and authority.

“Princess,” he said softly.

“Tell us how this book entered your room.

” His voice was gentle, almost sympathetic, but his eyes remained sharp.

“I wanted to answer calmly, but my voice cracked as I spoke.

” “I found it,” I said barely audible.

in the sitting room weeks ago.

The imam exchanged glances with the others and instead of reporting it, “You kept it,” he said.

“Why?” The question hit me like a blow.

I felt my throat tighten.

I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to reveal the truth that would destroy me completely.

I was curious, I whispered.

Nothing more.

The imam nodded slowly.

Though his eyes held a deeper question, he didn’t voice.

Another imam stepped forward, older, stern, respected for his strict interpretation of Islamic law.

His tone was less gentle.

Curiosity does not excuse disobedience, he said.

Reading such a book is forbidden.

You understand this? I nodded, shame filling my chest.

Yes, I said softly.

I understand.

My father exhaled sharply as if the sound alone eased some of the weight he carried.

“How much did you read?” he asked.

His voice was deeper now, harsher.

I couldn’t look at him.

My hands trembled harder.

“A few chapters,” I whispered.

“At night, silence followed.

Heavy, accusing, painful.

” My father looked away, pressing his fingers to his forehead.

The oldest Imam stepped closer to the table.

Princess, he said, “We are here not to punish, but to guide you back to the correct path, but first we need to know something important.

” He paused, then asked the one question everyone feared but needed,” answered, “Have you begun to believe anything from this book?” My breath caught, my stomach twisted sharply.

This was the moment I feared most.

If I said yes, everything would escalate instantly.

If I said no, I would be lying.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

My silence filled the room with dread.

My father’s jaw tightened.

My uncle shifted uncomfortably.

One imam closed his eyes as if praying silently.

I swallowed hard and forced the words out.

I do not know, I said honestly.

I do not understand everything I feel.

I am confused.

The answer was true but dangerous.

The room erupted into quiet whispers.

One uncle asked the imams what the Islamic ruling was in such situations.

Another adviser suggested immediate corrective action.

The older Imam spoke above them all.

Confusion is not belief, he said, but confusion is the path that leads to it.

We must intervene before confusion becomes conviction.

He turned to me.

Princess, you must renounce everything you have read immediately.

Do you understand? My father looked at me with expectation, hoping I would say yes and end this nightmare.

But I couldn’t.

My heart tightened painfully.

The words wouldn’t come.

Finally, I whispered, “I cannot say anything until I understand my own feelings.

” Gasps filled the room.

My father slammed his hand against the wooden table, making me flinch.

“Line, enough!” he shouted.

“This is not the time for feelings.

You are a princess.

Your duty is clear.

” His voice broke at the end, revealing the despair beneath his anger.

My eyes filled with tears.

I loved my father.

Hurting him was the last thing I ever wanted.

But my heart felt torn between fear and something I couldn’t define.

The older Imam regained control of the tribunal.

We must take action, he said firmly.

This is no longer a private struggle.

This is a threat to her faith and to the honor of this family.

He turned to my father.

She must be confined.

She must be instructed.

She must be given time to repent.

My father nodded slowly, though pain filled his eyes.

My uncles agreed.

The imam stepped closer to me, their faces heavy with responsibility.

Princess Lujain, the elder imam said, “You will be placed under spiritual supervision for the next 2 days.

You will pray.

You will fast.

You will read the Quran with guidance.

And at the end of these two days, you will be brought before this council again to publicly renounce the Bible and everything inside it.

He paused before continuing.

You will also burn the book yourself in front of us.

I froze completely.

Burn the Bible.

Burn the very book that had stirred something deep inside me.

Burn the pages that had touched the emptiness in my heart.

burn the words that felt like they understood my soul better than anything before.

My mind screamed for me to agree, to say yes, to end the pressure, to make my father proud again, to erase this disaster.

But my heart clenched painfully.

I couldn’t speak.

My father watched me while fighting back tears of frustration and shame.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the table to steady himself.

And if she refuses,” he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

The Imam lifted his eyes to meet his.

His voice was cold and final.

Then, according to our law, she will face the punishment for apostasy.

My blood ran cold, my hands went numb, my ears rang.

Apostasy, leaving Islam, was a crime with only one penalty: death.

The word hung in the air like smoke.

My father swallowed hard, his face collapsing with grief.

He could not argue.

He could not challenge the law.

He could only watch.

I felt my breath vanish.

I tried to speak, but couldn’t.

Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.

The tribunal ended shortly after, though I barely remembered walking out.

The guards led me back to my room, locked the door, and positioned themselves outside.

I collapsed onto my bed, shaking violently, unable to stop crying.

My entire body felt weak, drained, broken.

The reality of my situation crashed over me like a tidal wave.

I had two days.

Two days to submit.

Two days to destroy the book that had awakened something inside me.

Two days to lie to myself and everyone else.

Two days to save my life by killing a part of my soul or face death.

The hours that followed were torture.

Imams came one by one to speak with me through the locked door, quoting Quranic verses, warning me of hell, reminding me of my duty.

My mother tried to visit, but the guards denied her until the council allowed it.

When she finally entered, her eyes were swollen from crying.

She sat beside me on my bed, holding my hand, begging me to repent.

Please, my daughter, she whispered, you are killing me.

This is not you.

You are strong in Islam.

You are obedient.

You are pure.

Don’t throw your life away.

Her tears soaked my hand.

I wanted to comfort her, to promise I would obey, but my throat locked every time I tried.

She cried harder, whispering prayers over me.

My father visited next.

He didn’t yell this time.

He didn’t ask questions.

He just looked at me with a pain deeper than anything I had ever seen in him.

Lujain, he said quietly, I cannot protect you from this.

The law is the law.

If you refuse, his voice broke.

I will lose my daughter.

I sobbed, apologizing repeatedly, but I had no answers.

He left the room with tears in his eyes.

The next day passed in a blur of fear, confusion, prayer, and pacing.

I tried reading the Quran, but my hands shook too much.

I tried praying, but I couldn’t focus.

Every time I closed my eyes, the words from the Bible returned to me.

Come to me and I will give you rest.

I cried until I was too weak to cry more.

I begged Allah for clarity.

I begged God, whoever he was, to show me what to do.

My soul felt torn in half.

By sunset of the second day, the guards opened my door again.

The council was waiting.

I knew what they expected.

I knew what the law demanded.

I knew what would happen if I refused.

And still, I didn’t know what I would say.

When the guards opened my door at sunset on the second day, my heart nearly stopped.

Their faces were stiff, unreadable, and their silence told me what I already feared.

They had come to take me to the tribunal for my final decision.

I stood slowly from my bed, feeling weak from crying and fasting.

My legs shook beneath me and my heart pounded so loudly that I could barely hear the sound of the door closing behind us as they escorted me down the long hallway.

The villa was silent, too silent, as if every wall, every light, every shadow knew what was about to happen.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

I wanted to turn back, run, hide, anything.

But I knew there was no escape.

My fate was waiting in the council chamber.

The door to the meeting hall opened and the entire room fell into a suffocating stillness.

My father sat in the center surrounded by uncles, royal advisers, and the three imams who had questioned me previously.

Their faces were unreadable, but the heaviness in the air made my stomach twist painfully.

The Bible lay on a small wooden table in the center of the room, resting beside a brass torch prepared for the burning.

Seeing it there felt like a knife piercing my chest.

They gestured for me to step forward, and I obeyed, though my legs barely carried me.

My father’s eyes were filled with grief, as if he had aged years in just two days.

My heart broke seeing him like that, knowing I was the cause.

But deeper than his sorrow was the weight of the law hanging between us, unchangeable, unmovable.

The Elder Imam rose from his seat, his voice calm yet stern.

Princess Lujin Al- Sabah, he began, “You have been given time to reflect, to repent, to return to the path of Islam as expected of a daughter of this noble family.

” His gaze never left mine.

We now require your answer.

Will you burn this Bible and publicly renounce everything you have read? Will you reaffirm your shahada before this council? The torch in his hand flickered softly, illuminating the room.

Everyone leaned forward, waiting for my response.

My throat tightened.

My palms grew damp.

My heart raced as if trying to flee from my body.

I knew that saying yes would save my life.

I knew that burning the Bible would restore my place in the family.

I knew my father prayed silently that I would submit.

But something in my soul refused to move backward.

I slowly lifted my eyes and looked directly at the Bible.

Memories flashed through my mind.

Psalm 23 whispering peace into my heart.

The dreams of the man in white.

The gentle words that felt like healing to my soul.

I felt tears welling up, but I forced myself to speak.

My voice cracked as I whispered, “I cannot burn it.

” Gasp filled the room.

The imams froze.

My father clenched his fists, pained disbelief spreading across his face.

“Line,” he said, barely able to speak.

“Do not do this.

” My tears fell uncontrollably now, but I stood firm.

“I cannot deny what I have read,” I said, voice trembling but clear.

And I cannot burn the words that touched my soul.

The room erupted into chaos.

My uncles argued loudly.

The imams raised their voices, quoting scripture, warning me.

Advisers shouted about consequences.

Guards stepped closer.

My father closed his eyes in devastation.

The elder Imam silenced the room with a single command.

Then he turned to my father.

According to the law, he said solemnly, “She must face the punishment.

” My father’s breath faltered, but he nodded slowly.

He had no power against this ruling.

Two guards stepped forward immediately and seized my arms.

My mother suddenly appeared at the doorway, crying out my name, but the guards held her back as she tried to reach me.

“Please,” she screamed.

Please don’t take her.

She is my daughter.

Her cries cut through me more deeply than anything else.

I begged the guards with my eyes to let her hold me, but they pulled me away, dragging me down the corridor as she sobbed uncontrollably behind us.

My sister had collapsed into her arms, shaking violently.

The guards led me outside the Almasila residence to a black convoy waiting in the courtyard.

The cool night air hit my face like a shock, reminding me that this was real.

I was shoved gently but firmly into the back of the vehicle and the doors closed.

As we drove through the quiet streets of Kuwait City, I stared out the tinted window, watching familiar places blur into shadows.

The roads were empty.

The city lights glowed softly under the night sky.

Unaware that a princess was being driven to her execution, my body trembled uncontrollably, I whispered prayers, some to Allah out of habit, others to the God I had come to know in secret.

Please, I whispered into my trembling hands.

If you are real, if you hear me, help me.

I am so afraid.

But no voice answered.

Only silence filled the car, heavy and suffocating.

We arrived at a restricted section behind a government compound used for private royal matters.

The courtyard was enclosed, dimly lit by lanterns and torches.

A small group of officials, guards, and two imams stood waiting.

There was no audience, no ceremony, only a quiet, controlled environment where decisions were carried out without public knowledge.

They escorted me to the center of the courtyard where a simple execution platform stood.

The air felt heavy, still, almost suffocating.

I could hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

One of the imams approached me, his expression sorrowful but resolute.

This is your final chance, he said softly.

Renounce what you have read and you may walk away alive.

I shook my head slowly, tears streaming down my face.

I cannot lie, I whispered.

The imam’s expression tightened with grief.

He stepped back.

The executioner stepped forward.

He wore a black hood and carried a gleaming sword.

My legs nearly gave out.

Two guards caught me as I swayed, forcing me to kneel on the platform.

My hands were tied before me.

My tears soaked the fabric of my abaya.

My fear screamed inside my mind.

Every instinct in my body begged me to run, to fight, to plead.

But deep inside, beneath the fear, there was a strange stillness, gentle, quiet, almost comforting, like someone whispering, “You are not alone.

” I closed my eyes tightly as the executioner raised his sword.

The cold night air brushed against my neck, making me shiver.

The imam began reciting a final prayer.

The guards held their breath.

The executioner positioned his feet.

The courtyard waited in absolute silence.

Then everything changed.

Just as the sword began to descend, the ground beneath us trembled violently.

At first, it was a small vibration like a heavy truck passing nearby.

But within seconds, the entire courtyard shook with a force so powerful that several guards fell to their knees.

The executioner stumbled backward, dropping his sword with a loud clang.

The imams grabbed onto each other to avoid falling.

Dust shook free from the rooftops.

The lanterns hanging on the walls swayed wildly.

The ground cracked beneath the platform, splitting the stone surface with a lightning-shaped fissure.

I gasped and lifted my head in shock, unable to comprehend what was happening.

The guards who had been holding me released their grip, trying desperately to steady themselves.

The trembling intensified, and then suddenly a brilliant light descended into the courtyard.

It was not lantern light, not electricity, not fire.

It was something otherworldly, pure, bright, and unlike anything I had ever seen.

It radiated from above, illuminating everything with a white gold glow that made the shadows flee instantly.

The light was so bright that several guards shielded their faces, terrified.

One fell to the ground, crying out.

The imam stared upward in disbelief, their mouths open, their voices frozen in their throats.

The executioner stepped back, trembling violently, his sword forgotten on the ground.

The light surrounded me, not touching me, but encircling me as if forming a protective barrier around my body.

My tears stopped instantly.

My fear vanished in a single breath.

A warmth filled my chest, reaching places I had never felt before.

And then a voice spoke.

It was not a human voice.

It did not come from the guards or the imams or the officials.

It came from everywhere at once.

From the air, from the ground, from the sky, and from inside my own soul.

It was powerful yet gentle, strong yet comforting.

It spoke in no earthly language, yet I understood every word with perfect clarity.

This is my daughter.

I am with her.

” The moment the voice echoed across the courtyard, the trembling stopped.

The light grew brighter for one final second.

then slowly faded into the night sky, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

The courtyard was transformed.

Guards dropped to their knees, shaking with fear.

One of them cried, “This is from God.

” Another began whispering prayers, unsure which faith he was speaking to.

The imam stared at me with wide, trembling eyes, their certainty completely shattered.

The executioner removed his hood slowly, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

I cannot, he whispered.

I cannot touch her.

The officials backed away as if unsure whether they were standing in the presence of something holy.

I remained kneeling on the ground, still tied, but feeling freer than I had ever felt in my life.

The elder imam took a hen step toward me, his face pale.

What? What have we witnessed? He whispered, but no one answered him.

A moment later, a voice broke through the silence.

My father’s.

He had arrived during the commotion, running toward the courtyard with several guards behind him.

He froze when he saw the fractured ground, the terrified officials, and me kneeling in the center, surrounded by a faint lingering glow.

His eyes widened, feeling first with confusion, then with fear and then with something unexpected.

Recognition.

He approached slowly, as if afraid to come too close.

“Line,” he whispered.

“What happened here?” His voice shook.

The younger Imam stepped forward and spoke in a trembling voice, “Your Highness, God has intervened.

” My father looked around at the men kneeling, the executioner frozen in terror.

The Imam speechless and the ground cracked under the executioner’s platform.

For the first time in my life, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.

Then he looked at me, really looked at me with a mixture of awe, confusion, and something I never expected.

Respect.

That was the moment everything changed and nothing in Kuwait would ever be the same again.

My father did not speak for several seconds after the imam declared that God had intervened.

He stood in the dim courtyard staring at the fractured ground, the dropped sword, the officials kneeling in fear and the last traces of light fading from the night sky.

His chest rose and fell heavily as if he had forgotten how to breathe.

I remained kneeling too, still bound at the wrists, unsure if I was allowed to move.

My body felt weak from the shock, yet at peace in a way I had never felt before.

Something deep inside me knew that nothing would return to the way it had been.

Slowly, my father approached the platform with hesitant steps, as if walking towards something sacred.

The guards behind him stayed several paces back, afraid to go further.

When he reached me, he didn’t shout.

He didn’t question.

He only stared into my face, searching for something.

He knelt down slowly in front of me, the way he used to when I was a little girl, afraid of thunderstorms.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.

Lu Jane, tell me the truth.

who protected you just now? His eyes were filled with confusion and fear, but also with longing, like a man trying desperately to make sense of the impossible, I swallowed hard and lifted my trembling voice.

The God I read about in the Bible, I whispered, “Jesus.

” The moment the name left my mouth, several guards gasped.

One of the imams stumbled backward, murmuring prayers under his breath.

But my father didn’t flinch.

He simply closed his eyes tightly as if the weight of the truth pressed down on him all at once.

When he opened them again, they were filled with a mixture of grief and acceptance.

“I saw it,” he whispered.

“We all saw it.

” He stood slowly and turned towards the officials.

“Untie her,” he ordered.

His voice was firm now, no hesitation.

The guards obeyed immediately, rushing forward to cut the rope binding my wrists.

Their hands trembled as they worked, afraid to touch me for too long.

When the rope fell away, I rubbed my sore wrists gently, still overwhelmed by everything that had happened.

My father addressed the courtyard again, his vulture steady, but heavy with responsibility.

“There will be no execution,” he declared.

No punishment, no harm will come to her.

His words echoed through the courtyard, leaving everyone stunned.

The younger Imam stepped forward hesitantly.

“Your highness, but the law.

” My father raised a hand, silencing him.

“God has made his decision,” he said.

“And I cannot oppose a decision made by God himself.

” The courtyard fell silent, not daring to argue.

My father stepped closer to me again and lowered his voice so only I could hear.

But understand this, my daughter, he said, you cannot stay here.

Not after what happened tonight.

You will no longer be safe.

There will be questions, rumors, opposition, people who will not accept what they saw.

His words sank into my heart like cold water.

I knew he was right.

Even with what God had done, even with every witness trembling from the miracle, the reality remained the same.

Kuwait was not a place where a princess could openly follow Jesus.

The miracle protected my life, but it did not erase the consequences.

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“You must leave Kuwait,” he said.

“You must go into exile.

” My heart broke.

Tears filled my eyes instantly.

Exile, I whispered, unable to hide the pain.

My father nodded slowly.

It is the only way to keep you alive, he said.

His voice cracked slightly, revealing the depth of his suffering.

He reached out and gently placed his hand on my cheek.

Something he had not done since I was a child.

If you stay, he said, I will lose you.

This way, at least you will live.

Tears streamed down my face silently.

I never imagined leaving Kuwait.

I never imagined leaving my family, my home, everything I had known since birth.

But the moment he spoke those words, I knew there was no other path.

The miracle saved my life, but exile would protect my future.

My father stood and turned to the guards.

Prepare her a safe route, he commanded.

She leaves in the morning with full discretion.

The guards bowed their heads in obedience.

The imams remained silent, overwhelmed by what had occurred.

My father offered me one final look, a look filled with sorrow, love, confusion, and resignation.

Then he walked away slowly, his shoulders heavy with the weight of a decision no father ever wished to make.

The remaining officials dispersed silently, each of them shaken by what they had seen.

The courtyard emptied gradually until only two guards remained with me, offering respectful distance.

My legs trembled as I finally stood from the platform.

I inhaled the cool night air deeply, feeling a strange mixture of grief and peace in my chest.

I knew what I had lost.

I also knew who had found me.

The guards escorted me back to my room, but they no longer locked the door.

Something about the atmosphere had changed.

They looked at me with fear, yes, but also with respect, like someone touched by something greater than human power.

When I entered my room, the silence swallowed me again.

But this time, it did not feel like prison.

It felt like transition, like a doorway between two worlds.

I sat on my bed, exhausted, emotionally drained, overwhelmed by the events of the night.

My wrists still achd from the ropes, and my heart felt heavy from the coming separation.

But deeper than the pain was a quiet certainty.

Jesus had saved my life.

There was no denying that anymore.

I rested my hands on my knees and whispered into the darkness, “Thank you.

” The moment I spoke, a gentle warmth filled my chest, soft, comforting, steady, not overwhelming like the courtyard light, but present like someone sitting beside me silently.

I barely slept.

My mind kept replaying the miracle.

My mother’s cries, my father’s voice, the Imam’s fear, the guard’s shock.

Everything had changed in one moment.

I didn’t know what awaited me outside Kuwait, but something in my heart whispered that I would not walk alone.

Near dawn, a soft knock sounded at my door.

It opened before I could respond, and my mother stepped inside silently.

Her eyes were swollen from crying.

her face pale.

She closed the door behind her and approached me with trembling steps.

When she reached my bed, she sat beside me and gently held my face in her hands.

“Her tears fell instantly.

” “My daughter,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Why? Why did this happen?” I didn’t know what to say.

There were no words that could explain everything.

So, I simply leaned my head against her shoulder, letting her cry into my hair.

After several minutes, she wiped her tears and touched my cheek gently.

“They told me you are leaving,” she whispered.

I nodded silently, her lips trembled.

“I cannot stop them,” she said.

“But I can pray that you stay safe.

” Her voice was full of love and unbearable sadness.

She stood and held my hands tightly.

You will always be my daughter, she said, no matter what.

Then she kissed my forehead before leaving the room, closing the door slowly behind her.

It was the last time I saw her.

As the sun began rising over Kuwait, the guards knocked on my door again.

“Princess,” one of them said quietly.

“It is time.

” I stood, my legs still weak, and followed them through the residence.

We exited through a hidden side gate where a small convoy was waiting.

No grand farewell, no entourage, just silence.

One guard handed me a small bag containing clothes, identification papers, and a single notebook.

“From your father,” he said softly.

I held the bag close to my chest.

Another guard opened the door to the vehicle.

I took one final look at the Al-Masila Royal Residence.

The place that had sheltered me, shaped me and judged me.

Then I stepped inside and the door closed behind me with a soft thud that sounded like the end of a chapter.

We drove quietly through Kuwait City.

I watched the sunrise reflect off the towers and mosques, the streets slowly coming alive, unaware that a princess was leaving forever.

My heart achd deeply, but a strange peace steadied me.

After several hours, we arrived at Kuwait International Airport.

The guards guided me through a private terminal used for sensitive departures.

A discrete private jet waited on the runway.

They handed me my passport and a sealed letter from my father.

Do not open it until you land.

One guard instructed gently.

I nodded, unable to speak.

As I stepped onto the plane, my feet trembled.

I looked out the window one last time as the engines roared to life.

When the aircraft rose into the sky, I watched the familiar coast of Kuwait fade beneath the clouds.

My tears flowed silently, not from regret, but from the weight of everything I had left behind.

My country, my family, my identity.

But I also carried something new.

Faith.

A faith that had cost me everything, yet filled me with a peace deeper than anything I had known before.

When the plane landed in a quiet European city, one chosen for safety and anonymity, I followed the instructions in my father’s letter.

He had arranged shelter, protection, and a private apartment for me under a different identity.

His final sentence broke me completely.

I cannot protect you here, but I pray the God who saved you tonight will protect you everywhere else.

” I pressed the letter to my heart and cried, overwhelmed by love, and loss.

The weeks that followed were a mixture of loneliness, healing, and discovery.

I lived quietly, adjusting to a world where no one recognized me.

I began reading the Bible openly for the first time, not in secret or fear, but freely.

I joined a small group of believers who welcomed me like family.

For the first time in my life, I experienced worship that felt alive, personal, intimate.

I learned who Jesus truly was.

Not just a prophet, not just a historical figure, but a savior who saw me in the darkest moment of my life and intervened.

Slowly, my heart began to heal.

The emptiness I carried for years disappeared.

The fears that once controlled me faded.

I found purpose again.

Not as a princess, not as a public symbol, but as a daughter of God.

And even though I lived far from home, I felt closer to truth than I ever had inside palace walls.

Now, as I share my story, I do not ask for sympathy or admiration.

I ask you one question.

The same question that changed my life forever.

What would you sacrifice for the truth? Because I lost everything, family, country, identity, but I gained something far greater.

Jesus and he is worth everything.