My name is Prince Ysef Al-Naser.

I am 29 years old.

And on a blazing morning in Kuwait City, I was taken to the old public square to be executed for choosing the Bible over the Quran.

I knelt on the wooden platform with chains cutting into my wrists as the executioner raised his sword above my neck.

The crowd fell silent.

Even the window stopped moving.

But just as the blade began to fall, the sky clear only moments before collapsed into chaos.

A violent storm erupted out of nowhere, swallowing the square in a wall of sand, and darkness.

People screamed, soldiers ran, and in that terrifying moment, everything I believed about life, death, and Allah shattered forever.

I should have died that day.

But God had another plan.

Let me tell you how a Kuwaiti prince who once lived by royal power came to bow before the living Jesus Christ.

I was born in Kuwait city inside the quiet palm residential district not far from Bayan Palace where many extended members of the ruling families lived.

My father Sheik Abdul Rahman al-Naser was a respected figure known among diplomats and religious scholars for his discipline, his influence and his strict devotion to Islam.

My mother Fatima was gentle, softspoken and deeply devoted to her children.

I grew up surrounded by marble walls, gold chandeliers, private drivers and guards posted at every turn.

From the outside, it looked like the perfect world.

One where a child had everything others could only dream of.

But even as a boy, I felt something unusual in my heart.

Something I didn’t tell anyone.

I didn’t understand it then, but it was the first quiet whisper that my life would not follow the path planned for me.

My earliest memories were shaped by the rhythm of Islamic tradition.

When I was 4 years old, my father hired a private Quran teacher, an elderly man named Imam Mishari Al-Harbi, who visited our home every morning.

I remember the sound of his voice echoing through the grand halls as he recited verses from the Quran, teaching me Tajit with calm authority.

He would sit cross-legged on a prayer mat and say, “You, a man’s heart is measured by how much of Allah’s word he carries inside him.

” My father always watched proudly, reminding me that our family’s honor was tied to the strength of our devotion.

I learned early that obedience was more than respect.

It was expectation.

Five daily prayers were not optional.

Fasting during Ramadan was not optional.

Memorizing long suras was not optional.

I was raised to believe that Islam was the center of life and everything else would crumble without it.

By the time I was 10 years old, I could recite several long suras from memory.

My father often invited religious leaders to our home for discussions and I was instructed to sit politely beside him listening to their words about discipline, honor, and service.

They spoke about how Muslims must remain firm in obedience and how Allah rewards those who follow his commands without question.

I admired their strength.

Yet, I felt something missing, something I couldn’t explain, like a small emptiness that appeared at the edges of my mind when I heard them talk about faith built entirely on fear and duty.

But I kept these thoughts hidden, believing they were wrong or sinful.

I never wanted to shame my father.

So, I pretended everything made perfect sense to me.

Inside, however, I sometimes wondered if faith was supposed to feel heavy all the time.

Life inside our home followed strict routines.

Every morning began with fajar prayer, followed by Quran recitation and lessons in Arabic, history, and Islamic ethics.

Afternoons were divided between private tutoring, sports training, and cultural protocols expected of young royals.

I learned horseback riding at a training facility near Ahmadi, studied leadership through private programs, and attended exclusive social events where I was introduced to Kuwait’s elite families.

People bowed when I entered the room.

Servants rushed to open doors.

Guards followed silently behind me everywhere I went.

To others, this life seemed beautiful and privileged.

But to me, it felt like living inside a box.

I could not walk alone outside.

I could not sit in a cafe.

I could not even ride a bicycle outside our private courtyard.

Everything was watched, monitored, and guided.

Every step was expected to reflect honor upon my father’s name.

My father was a man of strength and tradition.

He believed that a royal must embody discipline and become an example of devotion to Islam.

He often reminded me that our family carried responsibility not just politically but spiritually.

Ysef he would say a man who loses his faith loses everything else with it.

He meant well, but his strictness left little room for questions.

My mother, on the other hand, taught me compassion and softness.

She would bring me tea in the evenings, sit beside me, and tell stories from her childhood in Yara, where life was simple and people leaned on each other during hard times.

She taught me to be kind to servants, to smile at guards, and to treat everyone with respect.

Between my father’s discipline and my mother’s gentleness, I learned the balance of strength and love, though I always felt more drawn to my mother’s way of seeing the world.

As I grew into my teenage years, the weight of expectations increased.

My father wanted me to become an advisor in Kuwait’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

One day, following the footsteps of our relatives who served the government, he enrolled me in advanced programs focused on diplomacy, politics, and Islamic law.

I studied under scholars who emphasized total obedience to Sharia, explaining that questioning the faith was a sign of weakness.

uh I respected them but I could not escape the feeling that something was incomplete.

My days were filled with lessons, memorization and ceremonies.

Yet my heart felt strangely distant.

Sometimes I would walk to the rooftop of our home at night and stare at the lights of Salmia in the distance wondering how ordinary people lived so freely.

I wondered if they also felt trapped or if it was only me who felt like something in my life was missing.

It was during those quiet nights that my questions grew louder.

Why did I feel empty despite having everything? Why did fear seem to guide so much of our faith? Why did it feel like every wrong step would bring shame instead of mercy? I tried to silence these questions, fearing that Allah would punish me for even thinking them.

I pushed myself harder, memorizing more Quran, praying longer, fasting more strictly.

But the emptiness did not disappear.

Instead, it grew.

I felt guilty for even feeling this way because I knew many people in Kuwait struggled for things I had from birth.

comfort, education, safety.

Yet material blessings could not fill the void inside me.

Something deeper was missing.

And although I could not name it, I felt it constantly like a quiet pull in my soul towards something beyond my world.

My father began to notice changes in me.

He would say, “Yuf, you are thoughtful, but be careful.

Too much thinking opens doors that should remain closed.

” I understood what he meant.

Islam in our home was not to be explored or questioned.

It was to be obeyed.

But the more he warned me, the more I felt the urge to understand faith beyond rules and fear.

I wanted to know why I believed what I believed.

Not just follow it because of family tradition.

Yet I never dared to speak these thoughts out loud.

My teachers expected perfection.

My father demanded obedience.

My brothers followed the path easily, seeming content with their roles.

I often wondered why I was different.

Why my heart constantly asked silent questions no one else seemed to struggle with.

But I kept quiet, believing the questions would fade with time.

When I turned 18, my father began preparing me for studies abroad, a tradition for many young Kuwaiti royals.

He wanted me to pursue political science and international relations in the United States, believing it would prepare me for a strong future in diplomacy.

I felt excited not only because I valued education, but because I longed to see a world beyond Kuwait’s strict structures.

My mother cried the night before my departure, holding my hands tightly and praying for Allah to protect me from the temptations of the West.

My father gave me the Quran he had carried during his youth and told me that no matter what I saw in the world, I must remain a devoted Muslim.

I promised him I would.

At that time, I meant it with all my heart.

I had no idea that my journey abroad would change me in ways I was not prepared for.

On the morning I left for Washington DC, a strange mixture of fear and excitement filled me.

I looked out the window of the plane as Kuwait faded beneath the clouds, wondering if I would feel the same when I returned.

I didn’t know that this journey would become the beginning of questions I could no longer ignore.

I didn’t know that the emptiness inside me would soon collide with experiences I never expected.

All I knew was that I was leaving behind the world I had always known.

a world of tradition, discipline, honor, and Islam and stepping into a place where people lived differently, believed differently, and questioned freely.

At that moment, I still believed my faith was unshakable.

I didn’t know that the path ahead would challenge every part of my identity and eventually lead me into a truth I never imagined.

As the plane landed in the United States and I stepped into a world full of noise, diversity, and unfamiliar freedom, I felt a spark inside me that I could not explain.

I was still a prince, still a Muslim, still carrying the weight of my father’s expectations, but something within me felt alive for the first time.

I didn’t know if it was curiosity, fear, or destiny, but I felt it strongly, as if the ground beneath me had shifted slightly.

I carried my prayer mat and Quran into my new apartment near Washington, DC, determined to remain firm in my beliefs.

But deep inside, I already sensed that America would not simply be a place of study.

It would be a turning point, a quiet beginning to a journey that would test my faith, reshape my identity, and eventually lead me to a truth powerful enough to change the course of my life forever.

My first weeks in the United States felt like stepping into a different universe.

Everything moved fast, everything sounded louder, and everyone seemed so free in a way I had never experienced.

I settled into a furnished apartment arranged by the Kuwaiti embassy near Washington DC in a quiet neighborhood lined with tall trees that swayed gently with the wind, something I rarely saw back home in Kuwait.

I still carried the Quran my father gave me and I prayed every day reminding myself of his words.

No matter where you go Yu remember you represent us.

I tried my best to maintain the same discipline I had at home but the new environment made it difficult.

People talked freely, laughed freely and expressed themselves without fear of judgment.

It was a culture shock, but at the same time, it awakened something inside me.

A feeling I could not describe, like my soul was taking its first breath.

I noticed immediately how different college life was from the structured uh world I came from.

At George Washington University, where I began my studies in international affairs, no one cared about titles or family names.

No one bowed.

No one whispered in my presence.

And no one stared when I entered the room.

I stood in line at the cafeteria like everyone else, attended lectures in large halls where students argued with professors and walked through campus without guards following behind me.

At first, it felt strange, almost unsettling.

But then I began to enjoy the anonymity.

I loved the feeling of being just Ysef and not your highness.

It made me feel like a real human being.

Still, I remained careful about to who I interacted with.

My father had warned me about the West’s influence.

So, I kept mostly to myself, observing how people behaved and how their beliefs shaped their lives.

Yet, even with my cushion, a part of me felt drawn to the warmth I saw in others.

During my classes, I met students from Nigeria, India, the United States, Pakistan, Egypt, and so many different countries.

One student in particular, Danielle Okoy, a Nigerian majoring in philosophy, often sat beside me during lectures.

He had a calm personality, always smiling and always ready to lend help.

Over time, he became my first real friend.

He never asked about my background or the reason for the guards who occasionally checked on me.

Instead, he treated me with a kindness that felt unusual to me.

I soon learned that Danielle was a Christian.

He never forced his beliefs on me, but he often spoke about hope, forgiveness, and peace.

His words confused me because I had always been taught that Christians believed in a corrupted book and a false idea of God.

Yet Daniel’s life reflected sincerity, patience, and something I couldn’t quite explain.

His kindness made me wonder why people like him seemed at peace in a way I didn’t fully understand.

One Sunday, out of pure curiosity and without telling anyone, I followed Daniel to a small church gathering he attended near Maryland.

I sat quietly at the back, watching people lift their hands and sing songs about love and mercy.

Their expressions were so sincere that I couldn’t help wondering where that joy came from.

Nobody stared at me or asked who I was.

People simply welcomed me with warm smiles as if I were part of their community.

I didn’t understand their songs or their prayers, but I felt a strange peace in the room, a gentle calmness that settled on my heart.

I had never felt something like that in a mosque.

Back home, prayers were filled with discipline and structure, but here worship felt personal, emotional, and filled with love.

Still, I told myself it was only curiosity.

I convinced myself that this feeling was temporary and that I needed to be careful not to displease Allah.

Despite trying to keep my distance from the Christian environment, I couldn’t deny the kindness I continued receiving from people who barely knew me.

It made me think deeply about humanity, faith, and the purpose of religion.

But even with all the questions in my mind, I still considered myself a Muslim, fully committed to Islam.

I prayed five times a day, fasted voluntarily, and reminded myself of my father’s expectations.

Yet inside my heart, the emptiness I had always felt didn’t disappear.

It was still there, silent, but persistent.

instead of fading, it began to grow stronger, especially as I watched how others lived with freedom and joy for the first time.

And I I realized I I didn’t understand what true peace felt like.

All my life, I had focused on obeying rules, but I had never experienced the deep inner comfort I saw in some of my Christian classmates.

Their peace was not tied to rituals or fear.

It seemed connected to something personal.

2 months after arriving in the US, something happened that changed the entire direction of my life.

The Kuwaiti embassy provided me with a private estate home in Mlan, Virginia, a quiet place where many diplomats and international students stayed.

I often took walks through the estate or rode the bicycle they left in the garage.

It gave me a sense of freedom I had never experienced in Kuwait.

One early morning just after sunrise, I decided to ride the bicycle alone.

The roads inside the estate were empty at that time, lined with tall trees that cast long shadows across the pavement.

The cool morning air felt refreshing.

I pedled faster, enjoying the speed.

For a moment, I forgot about tradition, expectations, and everything that weighed on me.

I felt like a young man just living his life.

But within seconds, everything changed.

As I approached a small downhill curve, the bicycle chain suddenly snapped.

I didn’t even have time to react.

The front wheel twisted sharply, and the entire bike flipped forward with violent force.

I flew through the air and hit the ground head first.

The impact was brutal.

I felt a sharp burning pain shoot through my skull.

And before I could even understand what had happened, everything went dark.

No guards were around.

No neighbors were awake.

No one witnessed the accident.

My phone was inside the house.

I lay unconscious on the ground in complete silence.

Moments turned into minutes.

minutes turned into nearly an hour.

Later, doctors told me I had slipped into a temporary coma caused by the head trauma.

But at the time, all I knew was that darkness surrounded me until suddenly it didn’t.

In that unconscious state, I found myself standing in a place that didn’t look like Earth.

Everything around me was filled with a soft pure brightness, warm and peaceful.

I couldn’t see the sun yet light was everywhere.

There were no buildings, no people, and no sound except a faint humming like wind moving gently across water.

I didn’t feel fear.

I felt weightless, calm, and strangely alive.

Then in the center of the brightness, I saw the outline of a man walking towards me.

I didn’t see his face clearly, but I saw a glow around him.

Like light itself followed him wherever he moved.

My heart raced, not in fear, but in awe.

The closer he came, the stronger the peace felt.

So strong it overwhelmed me.

Even though I had never seen him before, I knew exactly who he was.

I knew without being told it was Jesus.

He didn’t speak with his mouth, but I heard his voice inside my soul, clear, gentle, and full of love.

He said, “Yu, seek me, and you will find the truth.

” That was all.

No long speeches, no visions of the future, no commands, just a simple message spoken with a power that pierced my heart.

As soon as he finished speaking, the brightness around me grew even stronger until I couldn’t see anything.

My body felt lighter, as if I was being pulled upward or awakened.

And suddenly, I gasped for air.

My eyes opened.

The brightness was gone.

I was lying on the ground beside the bicycle.

A maintenance worker from the estate who had been passing by was shaking me and calling for help.

I tried to speak, but the world around me spun uncontrollably.

Paramedics rushed me to the emergency room where doctors confirmed I had been unconscious for about an hour.

At the hospital, they checked my vital signs repeatedly.

A neurologist asked me if I remembered anything from the accident.

I simply said no.

I didn’t know how to explain what I had seen.

How could I? I was a Muslim prince.

Jesus was a prophet in Islam.

But the Yas I saw in that bright realm didn’t feel like only a prophet.

He felt like someone far greater.

Fear gripped me the moment I realized what I had witnessed.

I imagine my father’s reaction.

And I imagined the scholars who taught me that Christian scriptures were corrupt.

I imagined how dangerous it would be if anyone even suspected I had seen something like this.

So I buried the experience deep inside my heart and remained silent.

Yet, no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t forget the warmth, the peace, and the voice that felt more real than anything I had known.

When I was released from the hospital, everything around me looked the same.

But I didn’t feel the same.

I walked through the estate slowly, touching the trees, listening to birds, and looking at the sky differently.

It felt as if new eyes had opened inside me.

I didn’t convert, nor did I fully understand what the encounter meant, but I couldn’t shake off Jesus’s words.

Seek me.

They echoed constantly in my mind in class, in prayer, in moments of silence, in times of confusion.

His voice always returned.

But I refused to talk about it with anyone, not even Daniel.

I feared he might misunderstand and push me toward Christianity before I was ready.

So I smiled, kept my secret and tried to continue life normally.

But normal no longer felt possible.

Something had been awakened inside my soul.

A flame that refused to go out.

As the months passed, I focused on my studies, but carried the memory of the accident everywhere I went.

Sometimes during long walks near the Potomac River, I would stop and wonder why Jesus appeared to me.

Why me? I wasn’t seeking Christianity.

I wasn’t questioning Islam openly.

I wasn’t reading any Christian books.

I was simply living my life as a Muslim.

Yet Jesus came to me when I least expected it.

When no one could influence the experience, when no voice but his could reach me.

That thought alone shook me deeply.

It meant that whatever happened that morning came from something beyond imagination.

At night, I relived the scene repeatedly, not out of fear, but out of longing.

I wanted to feel that peace again.

I wanted to hear that voice again.

But I didn’t know how to seek him or if I was even allowed to.

By the end of my second year in the United States, the memory of that encounter had become a silent companion.

It didn’t leave me, but I refused to address it.

I told myself that Allah would forgive my confusion.

That maybe the vision was a test or maybe it was just a dream caused by the head trauma.

But deep inside I knew it was real.

I knew it was not a dream.

The peace was too strong, too pure.

No dream had ever felt that alive.

Still, I continued to hide, scared of the consequences of acknowledging it.

Eventually, my program demanded that I return home for a leadership internship arranged by my father.

When I boarded the plane back to Kuwait, I felt a strange sadness, as if I was leaving behind the place where something inside me had begun to awaken.

During the long flight, I held my prayer beads and whispered quiet supplications, asking Allah to guide me.

But even then, Jesus’ words repeated in my heart like a whisper, “Seek me and you will find the truth.

” When the plane finally landed at Kuwait International Airport, I looked out at the desert landscape of my homeland and wondered if life would ever feel the same again.

I didn’t know that the encounter I tried to bury would soon return with greater force, pulling me into a journey I had never imagined.

A journey that would test my faith, my identity, and everything I believed about Allah, Islam, and the truth I had been raised to follow without question.

I stepped off the plane, unaware that the quiet seed Jesus planted in that brief moment of light would soon begin to grow, pushing me toward a destiny that would change my life forever.

My return to Kuwait felt heavier than I expected.

The heat, the familiar smell of the desert air, the tall dates waving in the wind, everything looked the same.

Yet inside me, nothing was the same anymore.

I tried to act normal as I walked through the arrival gates.

My father’s driver waited outside holding a placard with my name and he greeted me with respect as always.

But as we drove past the highways of Farwania and entered the quiet streets leading to our home near Bayan, I felt a sharp tension in my heart.

I remembered the encounter I had seen in America.

The brightness, the peace, the voice that said, “Seek me.

” I had tried to bury it.

I had tried to deny it.

Yet now, sitting once again in the land where everything was controlled and monitored, I felt it stronger than ever, I whispered quietly in my heart, “Why did you come to me?” But I received no answer.

The first few days back home were filled with reunions, gatherings, and questions about my studies.

My father, Shik Abdul Rahman, seemed pleased with the way I carried myself, and my mother hugged me with tears in her eyes.

But even as I laughed with my brothers and greeted cousins and distant relatives, I felt emotionally disconnected.

I no longer fit perfectly into the world I grew up in.

My father’s expectations felt heavier.

The religious environment felt stricter.

And every call to prayer echoed with a strange emptiness inside me.

I still prayed.

I still recited Quranic verses.

I still followed the routines expected of me.

But something in my heart felt like it was searching.

searching for something I could not name.

I didn’t dare tell anyone about the accident or the vision.

I knew how dangerous it would be.

So, I hid it like a secret flame burning silently within me.

As weeks passed, the questions inside me grew stronger.

I found myself thinking about Jesus more often than I thought was appropriate.

As a Muslim, I remembered how his presence felt during the neardeath experience.

Gentle, peaceful, and full of love.

It confused me.

I had never felt such peace from any religious encounter before.

Still, I tried to ignore it.

But the more I tried to forget, the more the memory returned with force.

I began searching online late at night when everyone was asleep.

I typed questions like, “What does Jesus teach?” or “Why do Christians feel peace?” I read forums, articles, and discussions quietly, always clearing my browser history afterward.

I felt a guilty time, telling myself I was only trying to understand the world better.

But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

I felt a pull towards something I didn’t yet understand.

a pull that scared me and fascinated me at the same time.

One evening, I visited a small bookstore in Hawaii known for selling English novels and foreign literature.

I went there under the pretense of buying books for my ongoing training program.

While browsing the shelves, I noticed a thin book hidden between two thick novels.

The cover was simple, brownish, without any decoration.

When I pulled it out, I almost dropped it in shock.

It was a small copy of the Gospel of Jean.

My heart pounded.

I quickly shoved it back, afraid someone might see me.

But then I glanced around.

No one was paying attention.

Something inside me whispered, “Take it.

” I hesitated.

I knew that having a Christian scripture in Kuwait was risky.

If my father found it, if any scholar saw it, if anyone even suspected I was reading it, everything would crumble.

Yet I felt the same inner voice pushing gently.

I found myself taking the book, paying for it quietly, and slipping it into my jacket before leaving the shop.

That night, I locked my room, sat at my desk, and stared at the small book for several minutes before daring to open it.

My hands trembled slightly as I flipped to the first page.

The words felt familiar from my first encounter in America.

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

As I read the verses slowly, I felt that same peace I had felt during the coma.

It was not emotional excitement.

It was something deeper, a stillness in my spirit.

I read for hours that night, stopping occasionally to wipe tears I didn’t understand.

The words of Jesus felt alive, gentle yet powerful, full of mercy.

They didn’t condemn.

They didn’t frighten.

They spoke of love, forgiveness, and truth.

For the first time in my life, I felt God not as a distant master demanding obedience, but as a father inviting me toward love.

I whispered, “Allah, who is this Jesus?” And the question broke me.

In the days that followed, reading the gospel became my secret routine.

I hid the small book inside the drawer under old university papers.

Every night after everyone had gone to sleep, I locked my door and opened it quietly.

Sometimes I read just one page.

Other times I read for hours until tears blurred the words.

I felt a change growing inside me.

Slowly, quietly, yet undeniably, I began noticing beauty in small things.

The wind, the sky, the laughter of children, the kindness of strangers.

My heart softened in ways I had never experienced before.

I felt compassion where I once felt pride.

I felt humility where I once felt duty.

My prayers to Allah became deeper, more honest.

I prayed not out of fear but out of genuine longing to understand truth.

Still, I didn’t consider myself anything other than a Muslim seeking answers.

I simply wanted to know God better.

even if the path frightened me.

But no secret stays hidden forever.

One morning, after a long night of reading, I fell asleep at my desk with the gospel still open.

I woke up to the soft sound of the door opening.

Standing in the doorway was Ahmed, a servant who had worked in our home for nearly four decades.

He held a tray of tea and dates.

His eyes moved from my face to the open book on the table.

Our eyes met and in that moment everything froze.

His expression changed from confusion to shock to fear.

He placed the tray down slowly, hands trembling.

Your highness, he whispered.

What? What is this? Panic shot through me.

I slammed the book closed and said, Ahmed, please don’t misunderstand.

But he stepped back, covering his mouth.

“This is the Inel,” he whispered.

“If anyone finds out, they will kill you.

” His voice cracked.

I tried to explain, but he shook his head in terror.

“You must burn it,” he whispered urgently.

“Please.

” I begged him to listen, telling him I wasn’t converting, that I was only trying to understand the vision I saw in America.

But Ahmed couldn’t accept it.

His loyalty to our family and his fear of Allah’s punishment overwhelmed him.

Tears filled his eyes as he said, “I love you like a son, but I cannot stay silent.

If they find out I knew and said nothing, they will punish me too.

” My heart broke.

I reached out to hold his arm, trying to calm him, but he stepped back quickly as if my touch would condemn him.

He left the room shaking, leaving the door slightly open behind him.

I knew then that it was over.

My secret was no longer safe.

I hid the gospel under the mattress, but I knew it wouldn’t matter.

Ahmed was loyal, fearful, and devout.

He would tell someone and that someone would tell my father.

That evening the house felt heavier than usual.

My father didn’t speak much during dinner.

He seemed distracted, tense.

My mother watched me with silent worry.

I barely ate, unable to shake the dread rising inside me.

I tried to act normal, but my mind raced with fear.

I knew the consequences of questioning Islam.

I knew the laws.

I knew the punishments.

Even within a royal family, apostasy was considered treason against Allah.

As I walked back to my room, later that night, I felt the eyes of guards watching me more closely than usual.

I locked the door and collapsed on my bed, whispering, “Allah, please help me.

” But deep down, I knew the quiet journey I had begun.

The journey of seeking truth was no longer just a personal search.

It was becoming a path that would soon collide with everything I had been taught to fear.

The next morning, before the sun rose, I heard heavy footsteps outside my room.

Then, without warning, my door burst open.

Four guards entered, followed by my father.

His expression was filled with anger, confusion, and pain.

My mother stood behind him, crying silently.

My father stepped forward, pointing to the mattress.

“Bring it out,” he ordered.

The guards lifted the mattress and the small gospel fell to the floor.

My father picked it up with shaking hands.

“Is this yours?” he asked, his voice trembling with fury.

I couldn’t speak, my throat tightened.

Ysef, he repeated louder.

Is this yours? I closed my eyes, tears forming.

Yes, I whispered.

The room fell silent.

My father’s face turned red with rage.

How could you? He shouted.

Do you know what this means? Do you know what you have done to this family, to Islam, to our honor? My legs felt weak.

I whispered.

I only wanted to understand, but he didn’t hear me.

Or maybe he did, but he couldn’t accept it.

He threw the book to the floor as if it were poison.

“You have betrayed Allah,” he said.

“You have brought shame on our name.

” My mother fell to her knees crying, begging him to stop.

But he ordered the guards, “Take him.

” I tried to speak, but two guards grabbed my arms and dragged me out of the room.

As I was pulled through the hallway, I heard my mother’s cries echo behind me.

My father followed us, refusing to look at me directly.

They took me downstairs into a small, dark room beneath the house, one I never knew existed.

It had a metal door and no windows.

They pushed me inside and the door slammed shut.

For the first time in my life, I was not a prince.

I was a prisoner.

I sat on the cold floor shaking uncontrollably.

Everything had happened so fast.

One moment I was quietly seeking truth.

The next, my whole life had crumbled.

I whispered, “Allah, help me.

” But I didn’t know if he was listening.

Then I remembered Jesus’s voice from the Kuma.

The gentle words, “Seek me.

” And I realized something terrifying.

My search had led me to this moment, this place of fear, confusion, and pain.

But even as fear wrapped around me like chains, a strange piece began to form deep inside.

I didn’t understand it, but I felt it.

I didn’t know what would happen next.

I didn’t know if I would survive, but I knew my journey into the truth had only just begun, and nothing in my life would ever be the same again.

The moment the metal door closed behind me, I knew my life had entered a new and terrifying chapter.

The small room beneath our home felt colder than anything I had ever experienced.

There was no bed, no window, only a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling and a single prayer mat folded in the corner.

I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, trying to steady my breathing.

My father’s last words echoed inside my mind.

You have betrayed Allah.

I wanted to cry, but no tears came at first.

My body shook from fear, confusion, and disbelief.

Hours passed, though I didn’t know how many.

I whispered prayers softly, asking Allah for guidance, asking for forgiveness, asking for understanding, but the only answer I received was the loud thumping of my heart inside that cold silence.

Later that day, the heavy lock clicked and the door swung open.

Three men stepped inside, religious scholars from our district, dressed in long white dish dashes with stern expressions.

Behind them stood two guards.

One scholar, an older man with a gray beard and sharp eyes, looked at me as if he already knew the conclusion of my fate.

“You,” he said calmly, “we are here to help you return to the straight path of Islam.

” I swallowed hard, unable to speak.

The second scholar carried a folder and placed it on the floor.

He took out the Gospel of John they had found.

“Do you confirm this is yours?” he asked.

I nodded slowly.

They exchanged glances filled with disappointment.

The third scholar leaned forward, his voice firm.

“My son, apostasy is a grave sin.

But if you repent now, Allah may forgive you.

Say you reject this book and return to the faith of Islam.

I wanted to breathe, but fear pressed against my chest like a weight.

I stared at the small book lying on the floor, the same one that had given me peace during lonely nights.

My heart trembled.

I wanted to protect it, but I also knew how dangerous this moment was.

I took a deep breath and spoke slowly, my voice shaking.

I have not abandoned Islam.

I am only trying to understand the vision I saw in America.

The scholars looked confused.

The older one asked, “What vision?” I hesitated, but then explained everything.

The bicycle accident, the coma, the bright light, the presence of Jesus, and the words, “Seek me.

” As I spoke, the scholars expressions hardened.

When I finished, the room fell into a heavy silence.

The eldest scholar finally said, “Yu, that was a trick of Shayan.

Jesus cannot appear to you.

You are being deceived.

” His words struck me deeply.

But something in my heart refused to accept them.

I shook my head gently and whispered, “It did not feel like deception.

It felt like peace.

My response angered them.

The second scholar slapped his hand against the wall and shouted, “Peace! Peace! You speak blasphemy.

You insult Allah with these lies.

” The guards shifted uncomfortably.

I closed my eyes trying not to let fear overtake me.

The scholars pressed further, demanding that I renounce any interest in Christianity and swear by Allah that I had been misled.

But I could not force myself to lie.

I had not converted, but the vision had changed me.

And denying it felt like denying the truth that touched my soul.

After several hours of questioning, they left the room in frustration, telling the guards to tighten my confinement.

As they walked out, one scholar whispered to my father standing in the hallway, “He is close to apostasy.

If he refuses repentance, the law is clear.

” Hearing that sentence cut through me like a knife.

My life was no longer my own.

My father visited me the next day.

When he entered the room, he didn’t shout.

He looked exhausted, broken.

His eyes were red as if he had not slept.

He closed the door behind him and sat across from me on the floor.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, in a tired voice, he spoke, “Yu, do you understand what you have done?” His tone was not angry this time, but painful.

I lowered my head and whispered, “Father, I only wanted to understand the truth.

I did not mean to bring shame.

He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

You do not understand.

This is not just about shame.

This is about faith, about our family, about Allah’s law.

I tried to speak, but he lifted his hand.

No, listen to me.

He leaned closer, his voice breaking.

If you continue like this, the court will treat you as an apostate.

They will sentence you to death.

I am trying to save you.

Tears finally came to my eyes.

Seeing my father cry was something I had never imagined.

Father, I said softly, I still believe in Allah.

I still honor our faith.

I did not convert.

I just felt something during the accident.

I cannot lie about it.

He placed his hand on his forehead in frustration.

Ysef, do you not hear yourself? You speak like a Christian.

You defend their book.

You speak of Jesus’s as if he is more than a prophet.

This is dangerous.

This is madness.

His voice rose with desperation.

He stood and paced the room.

Just say you made a mistake.

Just say you were confused.

Say anything that will come.

The scholars.

I wiped my tears and whispered, “I cannot lie.

Not even to save myself.

” My father froze.

His shoulders dropped in defeat.

He whispered, “Then I cannot save you.

” He walked out of the room slowly, leaving me trembling in silence.

2 days later they transferred me from the small room beneath our home to an official detention facility in Sabbia, a place where religious cases were often handled privately to avoid public attention.

They moved me at night blindfolded so no one could see the prince being escorted like a criminal.

When the blindfold was removed, I found myself inside a narrow cell with a metal cot, a small toilet, and walls stained with years of hopelessness.

The air smelled of sweat and old stone.

I sat on the cot and pressed my head against the wall, praying silently.

I didn’t know what would happen next, but I knew things were now far beyond my father’s control.

Early the next morning, the guards brought me into a room where a panel of three religious judges waited.

Their faces were stern, unreadable.

They motioned for me to sit.

One judge began reading the charges in a calm, cold voice.

Possession of Christian scripture, belief in visions promoting another faith, and refusal to renounce the influence of Christianity.

My heart pounded.

The lead judge asked me the same question that everyone had asked since the gospel was found.

Do you repent and return fully to Islam? I felt the room closing in on me.

I took a deep breath and spoke softly.

I have not left Islam.

I am only seeking to understand what I experienced.

The judge slammed his hand on the table.

That is not repentance, he shouted.

You defend a Christian encounter.

You refuse to accept that it was deception.

He leaned forward, his eyes burning into mine.

Your belief makes you dangerous.

A chill ran through my body.

Another judge said, “Yu, if you continue like this, the ruling is clear under Sharia.

Apostasy demands death unless the individual repents.

” I wanted to scream that I wasn’t an apostate.

I wanted to explain my confusion, my longing for truth, my sincerity.

But I knew it wouldn’t matter.

They didn’t want to understand.

They only wanted submission.

I lowered my eyes and whispered, “I cannot deny what I saw.

” A long silence followed.

Then the lead judge declared, “We will allow three more days for repentance.

If you do not return to Islam clearly and publicly, we will proceed with the legal sentence.

I felt my legs weaken.

The guards escorted me back to myself.

When the door shut, I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

I cried for my mother who was probably praying for me.

I cried for my father who had lost hope.

I cried for myself because I knew what was coming.

I prayed desperately asking Allah for mercy, asking for direction and and asking for strength.

But every time I prayed, the same memory returned the peaceful brightness, the gentle presence, the voice saying, “Seek me.

” The more I remembered it, the less fear I felt.

Not because I was brave, but because something inside me felt held, supported, as if I wasn’t alone in that cold cell.

On the final day before the scheduled decision, my father came to see me.

He looked older, his face tired, his eyes bruised with sorrow.

He asked the guards to give a moment alone.

When they stepped out, he sat beside me on the court and held my hand gently.

“My son,” he whispered, “I beg you.

Just say the words they want to hear.

Say you repent.

Say you reject the vision.

Say you will never read their book again.

Say it and you will walk out of here.

Come back home.

We can forget all of this.

His voice was breaking.

I looked into his eyes and felt my heart shatter.

Father, I whispered, I cannot deny the truth of what I experienced.

Jesus came to me peacefully.

I cannot say it was evil.

I cannot lie.

His expression changed from sorrow to devastation.

He stood slowly and whispered, “Then they will kill you.

” The next morning, guards entered the cell with chains.

Their faces were emotionless.

One guard whispered, “I am sorry.

” They chained my hands and feet, then escorted me through dim hallways toward the courtroom.

I felt cold and frightened but strangely calm.

When I entered the room, the judges were waiting.

The lead judge asked loudly, “Yuf al-Naser, do you reject all Christian influence and affirm your full return to Islam?” I lifted my head, tears in my eyes, and said quietly, “I cannot deny what I saw.

” The room erupted in murmurss.

The judge slammed his gavvel and declared, “Then the court finds you guilty of apostasy.

The sentence is death by public execution.

” My breath caught, but I did not collapse.

I felt a strange strength hold me upright.

The guards pulled me out of the courtroom and I heard my mother screaming somewhere in the distance.

They took me back to the cell now as a condemned man.

That night I could not sleep.

I knelt on the floor and prayed softly, not with fear but with surrender.

Allah, I do not understand everything.

But if Jesus is truly from you, then guide me.

Give me strength.

If I must die, stay with me.

As I prayed, the same warmth I had felt in the Kuma filled the cell.

A quiet, peaceful warmth that softened my trembling.

I didn’t see Jesus physically this time, but I felt his presence, the same presence that had called me in America.

I realized then that my search for truth had not been in vain.

Even in the face of death, I felt peace.

I didn’t know if it was the end or a new beginning.

But I knew one thing with certainty.

The truth I sought was closer than ever.

And the path ahead, no matter how dark, would not be walked alone.

The morning they came for me is a memory carved into my bones.

I had spent the whole night kneeling on the cold concrete floor, whispering prayers with a calmness I didn’t understand.

I wasn’t brave.

I wasn’t fearless.

I was simply surrendered.

When dawn approached, the hallway outside myself filled with the metallic clatter of chains and the heavy steps of guards.

My heart thaw it slowly, not with panic, but with a strange acceptance.

The cell door opened and two guards entered, their faces rigid.

One of them avoided my eyes as if ashamed of what he had to do.

They shackled my wrists and ankles, the cold iron biting into my skin.

As they led me out, I whispered quietly, “Lord Jesus, stay with me.

” The words felt soft but powerful.

I didn’t know what the day would bring, but I knew something deep within me had already shifted forever.

The hallway leading to the transport yard smelled of dust and oil.

Each step echoed like a drum against the concrete walls.

When we reached the yard, a black government truck waited with its doors open.

It was the same type used for highprofile prisoners.

The sun had barely risen and the air over Kuwait City carried a heavy silence.

They helped me climb inside and secured the chains to a metal ring in the floor.

As the engine started, I felt the vibration under my feet.

Through the small barred window, I watched familiar streets pass by.

places where I had once walked freely, the district where my cousins lived, the road leading toward Kuwait towers, the beach where I had learned to swim as a child.

Now everything looked distant, as if belonging to another lifetime.

I pressed my head lightly against the metal wall and whispered, “If I must die, let me die with peace.

” The truck took a turn toward the old public square where executions were often carried out in earlier decades.

The closer we got, the more the noise from the streets grew.

People were gathering, murmuring, whispering.

News had spread quickly.

A royal prince condemned for apostasy.

Even though the square was usually less used for executions in modern days, the government had chosen it for symbolic weight.

My stomach tightened, but I breathed slowly.

When the truck stopped, the doors swung open and a sharp light flooded in.

The guards gestured for me to stand.

As I stepped out, I was met with the sight that made my breath catch.

Hundreds of people behind barricades, soldiers positioned across the edges, and an execution platform in the center.

Some people stared with pity, others looked angry, many simply watched in silence, unsure what to feel.

The guards guided me toward the platform.

The sun was now bright, and its heat covered my skin like a blanket of fire.

My chains clinkedked with every step echoing in my ears.

I was placed on my knees and the executioner stood behind me dressed in black, holding a wide ceremonial sword.

His face was hidden behind a cloth mask.

In front of me stood an imam from the religious court reading the final declaration in a booming voice that filled the entire square.

He asked it once more if I would repent and return to Islam.

I lifted my head and spoke calmly.

I honor Allah, but I cannot deny the truth I have seen.

Jesus came to me.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The imam closed the book sharply and stepped back.

For a moment, everything around me became still.

Even the guard shifted nervously.

The executioner raised the sword.

My heart beat slowly, not with terror, but with a strange warmth.

I closed my eyes.

Into your hands, Lord.

I commit my spirit.

Then the world exploded.

A sudden violent wind struck the square with a force I had never felt before.

It came without warning, roaring like a storm descending from the sky.

People screamed and began to scatter.

Soldiers shielded their faces.

The executioners staggered back, nearly dropping the sword.

Sun whipped across the square, even though Kuwait city had been calm moments before.

The sky darkened as if a cloud had swept directly over the sun.

The wind grew stronger, swirling sand into a thick spiral that blurred everything around me.

I felt grains cutting across my skin, but inside my chest there was peace.

The chains on my wrists rattled violently, then snapped, both of them like cheap wires.

The shock of it made my breath stop.

I looked down at the broken metal pieces lying on the ground.

For a second, I couldn’t move.

Then from deep inside me, the same steady voice I had heard in the coma whispered again, “Get up and run!” I rose to my feet, half blind from the sandstorm.

The guards around me were stumbling, unable to see.

People were crying out, trying to escape.

The sandstorm twisted like a wall of dust, thick, loud, terrifying.

I covered my mouth with my hand and moved forward, guided only by instinct and that quiet inner voice.

I stumbled across the platform steps, nearly slipping, then filled the ground beneath me as I ran toward the nearest alley.

Every step felt unreal.

Anything could have stopped me.

A soldier, a stray bullet, even the storm itself.

But each time I thought I would fall, another gust of wind pushed me forward, shielding me.

I heard metal banging, people shouting, but it all sounded distant.

The sand became my cover, hiding me from every direction.

By the time I reached the end of the alley, my lungs burned, but I kept moving until the noise behind me faded.

When I reached an empty service road, the storm began to weaken.

The sky brightened gradually, sunlight returning through torn patches of cloud.

I leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.

My hands trembled from shock.

“Thank you,” I whispered, tears slipping down my face.

“You saved me.

” I didn’t have time to stay still.

I tore off the prison shirt, keeping only the undershirt to look less noticeable.

I wrapped the torn cloth around my head like a scarf to hide my face.

Then I headed toward the outskirts of the city, avoiding main roads and ducking behind buildings whenever I heard vehicles.

My feet were bruised, my body aching, but I walked as fast as I could.

Each step seemed guided as if an unseen hand pushed away danger before it could reach me.

The further I walked from the square, the more I understood something unshakable.

I was not running alone.

By late afternoon, I had reached the desert edge beyond Mutla Ridge, a quiet area stretching north of Kuwait City.

The heat pressed against my skin, and my throat felt painfully dry.

Yet, I kept going until the city was only a distant shape behind me.

When I could no longer walk, I collapsed under a low, rocky slope.

My body burned from exhaustion.

The sand felt warm against my palms.

I whispered, “Lord Jesus, guide me.

” I closed my eyes just to rest them.

And sleep took me immediately.

When I woke hours later, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and gold.

My body felt weak, but I pushed myself up.

Hunger clawed at my stomach.

My lips were cracking.

I looked at the wide desert head, feeling small and uncertain.

Yet deep within, I sensed that if God had saved me once, he would not abandon me.

Now, as I moved further into the desert, the evening wind became cooler.

My steps were slow, but determination carried me.

With every breath, I whispered short prayers, asking for strength.

After what felt like hours, I spotted a faint shimmer in the distance.

At first, I thought it was my imagination, a mirage from thirst.

But as I got closer, I saw palm trees swaying gently in the wind.

My heart leapt.

It was an oasis.

I stumbled towards it, nearly falling into the sand before reaching a small pool of clear water surrounded by date palms.

My knees buckled.

I cuped my hands into the water and drank deeply.

The cold liquid reviving me instantly, tears mixed with the water dripping from my chin.

I ate dates from the ground, feeling life returned to my body.

I lay beneath the palm shade and cried.

Not from fear but from overwhelming gratitude.

God had saved me twice in one day.

When morning arrived, I started moving north.

My plan was simple.

Reach the border and find help.

The desert was harsh, but my spirit was stronger now.

The memory of the storm fueled me.

After hours of walking, I spotted a caravan of bedwins with camels moving slowly across the dunes.

I hesitated, unsure if approaching them was wise, but I needed water and direction.

I raised my hand and called out softly.

Assalamu alaykum.

They stopped.

One elderly man approached cautiously.

His face carried kindness, not suspicion.

Assalam, he replied.

Where are you coming from, my son? You look like you have walked through death.

His words struck me.

I lowered my head and said, “I am a traveler who has lost his way.

” He studied me silently, then offered water without another question.

That act of mercy felt like another miracle.

The Bedawins allowed me to walk with them for part of their journey.

Their kindness was simple, quiet, and sincere.

As we traveled together, I realized how easily God used people, even strangers, to protect those he loves.

At night, we sat around a small fire.

They talked about Allah, fate, and survival.

I listened quietly.

I didn’t dare tell them who I was or what had happened.

But inside, I felt something growing.

Faith, certainty, courage.

When we reached the point where our paths separated, the elderly man handed me a small pouch of dates.

“This will help you reach wherever Allah is sending you,” he said.

His words touched my heart deeply.

I thanked him and continued alone across the dunes toward the border.

My feet blistered, but my spirit stronger than ever.

The desert around me felt endless, but I no longer felt lost.

I knew I had been rescued for a reason.

And though I didn’t yet understand what that reason was, I trusted that the God who saved me from the sword and the storm would lead me to the next step of my journey.

I continued my journey through the desert with slow unsteady steps, each one pushing me further away from everything I had ever known.

My body felt light from exhaustion, but my heart carried a strange strength that kept me moving.

The words of the old Beduin man echoed in my mind, “Wherever Allah is sending you.

” Those words felt prophetic now.

The desert stretched endlessly before me.

The sand shimmering under the morning sun.

My throat was dry.

My feet blistered and my legs felt weak.

But something inside me refused to stop.

I whispered short prayers as I walked.

Not knowing exactly what awaited me, but trusting that the God who had saved me twice.

Once from the sword and once through the storm would not leave me now.

After hours of walking, the landscape changed slightly, revealing patches of rock and scattered shrubs.

My heart lifted because rocky land meant I was getting closer to the northern uh part of the desert.

By midday, the heat became unbearable and I looked for shade among a cluster of rocks.

As I sat there catching my breath, I thought about my family.

I wondered if they knew I had escaped.

I wondered if my father was grieving, angry, or relieved.

Part of me wished I could see my mother just one more time, but I knew that to return him was impossible.

I had crossed an invisible threshold the moment I refused to deny the truth in front of the judges.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

Thinking about the storm that had saved my life.

I remembered the way the chain snapped, the way the sand shielded me, and the voice that guided me.

It didn’t feel like coincidence.

It didn’t feel like a natural event.

It felt intentional, divine, purposeful.

As I rested, I understood something quietly but firmly.

God hadn’t just saved my life.

He was guiding me towards something new, something that would require all the courage left inside me.

When my strength returned enough to continue walking, I followed the sun’s direction toward the border.

The desert eventually flattened into a long stretch of dry land with fewer dunes.

I walked for hours until the sun began to set, painting the sky with orange and purple hues.

As I approached a shallow valley between two ridges, I saw faint lights shimmering in the distance.

My heart jumped civilization.

I moved faster despite the pain in my legs.

When I got closer, I realized the lights belonged to a small cluster of buildings near the Jordan border.

I fell to my knees and whispered, “Thank you, Lord.

You have carried me this far.

” I gathered enough strength to stand and continued walking.

The night grew colder, and the wind brushed against my skin like cold fingers, but it no longer frightened me.

I knew safety was close.

When I reached a narrow stream, the Jordan River itself, I felt tears fill my eyes.

I knelt by the water, cuped it in my hands, and drank slowly.

The coolness revived me instantly.

As I lifted my head, I noticed two shadows standing on the opposite side of the river.

For a moment, I froze, unsure if they were soldiers or civilians.

Then one of them raised a hand and called softly, “Are you Yu?” My heart stopped.

I stood slowly.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice trembling.

The man stepped closer, the moonlight revealing his gentle expression.

“We were sent to find you.

God told us to come tonight.

You are safe now.

” Those words broke something open inside me.

I crossed the shallow part of the river and staggered forward.

The man caught my arm gently.

Come, brother, you’re safe.

They helped me walk toward a small house tucked behind a row of olive trees.

Inside, a group of believers waited, some young, some old, men and women from different countries.

They welcomed me with warm smiles and soft voices.

They didn’t treat me like a prince.

They didn’t treat me like a criminal.

They treated me like family.

They gave me clean clothes, warm soup, and a soft mattress.

As I sat eating slowly, one of the men said, “We heard what happened.

God’s hand is on your life.

” I lowered my head as tears rolled down my cheeks.

It was the first time since the prison that I felt truly safe.

That night, as the others slept, I lay awake listening to the gentle sounds of the night, the chirping of insects, the distant whisper of the wind through the olive leaves, and the steady breathing of people who risked their lives to help a stranger like me.

I whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.

” It felt surreal to speak his name openly without fear.

The peace that settled over me felt unlike anything I had known growing up in the palace.

It wasn’t the forced calm of wealth or the pressured silence of royalty.

It was the peace of belonging.

I drifted to sleep, feeling for the first time that my old life had truly ended and a new life had begun.

In the days that followed, I learned that the small group was part of an underground Christian network that quietly supported people running from persecution.

Many had suffered the same trials I had.

families rejecting them, governments hunting them down, friends turning into enemies.

Yet each person carried a quiet courage that shone brighter than anything I had ever seen in the royal family.

They prayed together daily, studied the Bible in secret, and supported one another like true brothers and sisters.

It was during one of these gatherings that I met Pastor Elias, a former Muslim from Egypt who had converted years earlier.

When he heard my story, he looked at me with his gentle eyes and said, “Yuf, God did not save you from death only to hide your story.

He saved you because there is purpose on your life.

” His words struck me deeply.

For so long, I had been searching for meaning, longing for truth.

Now, here was someone telling me that everything I had gone through, the visions, the storm, the escape, was not random, but part of a divine calling.

One afternoon, Pastor Elas invited me to walk with him to the riverbank.

The breeze carried the soft scent of olive trees, and the river shimmerred in the sunlight.

He stopped at a shallow point in the water and turned to me.

Ysef, he said gently.

You believe in Jesus with all your heart? Yes.

I nodded.

Yes, I believe he saved me.

He smiled.

Then it is time to declare it fully.

My heart pounded as I realized what he meant.

Baptism, a public declaration that I belong to Christ.

My chest tightened, not with fear, but with overwhelming emotion.

He stepped into the water and held out his hand.

I felt tears rise as I walked toward him, the cool water washing over my legs.

“Do you believe Jesus is the son of God?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Do you accept him as your savior and lord? Tears streamed down my face.

Yes.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Then I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

” As he lowered me into the water, my heart felt like it might burst.

When I emerged, the sunlight hit my face and the wind brushed gently across my skin.

I felt lighter, freer than I had ever felt in my entire life.

The people watching clapped softly, some wiping tears.

Pastor Elas embraced me and whispered, “Welcome to the family of God.

” That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the prince I once was.

A young man who lived behind walls of gold, surrounded by rules, expectations, and fear.

That man had died the moment I rose from the water.

I was no longer Prince Yufu al-Naser of Kuwait.

I was simply Ysef, a servant of Christ.

And for the first time in my life, I felt truly alive.

In the months that followed, I stayed with the underground church, learning the scriptures and deepening my understanding of faith.

I studied daily, sometimes late into the night, hungry to know more about Jesus.

The words of the Bible felt alive.

Every verse spoke to my heart.

I learned how to pray boldly, how to share my story with humility, and how to live with courage in a world where truth could cost you everything.

The more I learned, the more a fire grew inside me.

A desire not just to survive but to help others searching for truth.

Pastor Elas noticed it too.

One evening after a long day of studying he said, “Yuf, you have a calling.

God rescued you for a reason.

He wants you to strengthen others.

” His words settled into me like seeds.

For the next two years, I trained with other believers who secretly traveled across the Middle East, encouraging converts, teaching scripture, and spreading hope.

We moved quietly, never staying in one place for too long.

I learned to navigate danger, to avoid attention, and to trust God even in darkness.

We visited small house churches in Jordan, Syria, Iraq, and other places where believers suffered silently.

I saw people risk everything for their faith.

Men praying in secret, women whispering worship songs in basements, children learning Bible verses with tears in their eyes.

Their courage humbled me.

I shared my own story whenever it was safe to do so.

Each time I spoke about the sandstorm, the chains breaking, and the voice that saved me, people wept and whispered prayers of gratitude, many said, “If God saved you, he can save us, too.

” Their faith strengthened mine.

There were nights when danger drew close.

Rumors spread about a former Kuwaiti prince preaching Christianity in secret.

We had to hide repeatedly.

Sometimes sleeping in abandoned buildings, sometimes in push in mountain caves.

But every time fear tried to grip my heart.

I remembered the storm in Kuwait City.

I remembered how God shielded me when hundreds of eyes were watching.

I remembered how he guided my step through the desert.

If he could save me, then he could save me now.

and he always did.

Through every close escape, every whispered prayer, every journey across the region, I felt God with me.

I realized something profound.

I had lost my royal palace, but I had gained a kingdom that would never crumble.

As years passed, I often thought about my father and mother.

I prayed for them every night.

I prayed that God would soften their hearts, that one day they would understand why I chose truth over tradition.

I prayed that they would find peace, the same peace that saved my life.

Sometimes I imagine standing before them again, not as their rebellious son, but as a man transformed by grace.

I didn’t know if I would ever see them again.

But hope remained alive in me.

I knew that God could open doors no human could close.

Now as I tell my story, I am no longer running.

I live quietly far from Kuwait using a new name for safety.

I do not appear in public and very few people know who I really am.

Yet my heart is full.

Each morning I wake up and whisper the same words.

Thank you Jesus for saving me.

I am no longer the prince I once was.

I have no crown, no palace, no guards.

But I have something far greater.

Faith, freedom, and a purpose shaped by God himself.

I have learned that no earthly kingdom compares to the kingdom of light.

And though I may never return home, I walk every day with the one who carried me through death, through storms, and into a life brighter than anything I ever imagined.