They were coming.

I didn’t need to look to know it.

I could feel the vibration of their boots hitting the stage floor.

A rhythmic thuting that sensed with the frantic hammering of my own heart.

10,000 people.

10,000 pairs of eyes staring at me in a mixture of confusion and dawning horror.

The air in the Riad International Convention Center was thick, suffocating, charged with a static electricity that happens right before lightning strikes.

My hands were gripping the podium so hard my knuckles had turned white, losing a whole feeling.

I was sweating, a cold, clammy sweat that pricricked at my skin under the heavy fabric of my bish.

This was it.

The moment I had rehearsed in my nightmares a thousand times.

The moment where there was no turning back.

I looked to my left.

In the peripheral vision, I saw the blur of motion.

security, not just regular event staff, but the royal guard.

Men trained to neutralize threats instantly.

Men who knew exactly who I was, or rather who I was supposed to be.

They were moving fast, cutting through the VIP section, pushing aside dignitaries and chics.

I had seconds, maybe five, maybe 10.

I looked out at the sea of faces.

Men in pristine white throbes and red gutress.

Women in black abias.

The elite of Saudi society.

They had come here for an economic forum.

They had come to hear about vision 2030, about oil prices, about the future of the kingdom.

They had no idea they were about to witness an execution.

My execution.

The microphone in front of me hummed.

A low frequency buzz that seemed to drill into my skull.

My throat was dry, like I had swallowed a handful of desert sand.

Every instinct in my body, every survival mechanism inherited from a thousand years of desert ancestors was screaming at me to run.

Run, colleague, run before they grab you.

Run before they silence you.

But my feet were rooted to the spot.

A strange supernatural weight held me there.

It wasn’t fear.

It was something else.

A fire.

A fire burning in my chest that was hotter than the fear, hotter than the desert sun outside.

I leaned forward.

The feedback from the microphone screeched for a split second, silencing the murmurss in the crowd.

The guards were closer now.

I could see the panic in their eyes.

They knew.

They knew I was going off script.

They knew I was about to drop a bomb that would shatter the carefully constructed image of this holy land.

My name is Prince Khaled bin Abdulaziz Alsad,” I said.

My voice didn’t sound like my own.

It boomed across the auditorium, echoing off the high steel rafters.

The crowd gasped.

A collective intake of breath that sucked the oxygen out of the room.

They knew that name.

They knew the Prince Khaled who had been exiled.

The Prince Khaled who was supposed to be dead.

The Prince Khaled who was a stain on the family honor.

and I have come back from the dead to tell you one thing.

I continued, my eyes locking onto the camera lens at the back of the room, broadcasting live to millions.

I have come to tell you that the man you call a prophet is dead, but the man I call Lord dot dot.

He is alive.

I saw the lead guard lunge for me.

I saw his hand reaching for my shoulder.

I saw the flash of anger on the faces in the front row.

Jesus is in Saudi Arabia right now.

I shouted, the words tearing out of my throat like a desperate prayer.

And he is coming for you.

The feed cut to black.

The microphone went dead.

But the words, the words were already out.

And once the truth is spoken, not even the king can silence it.

To understand why a prince at the house of Sod would stand on a stage and sign his own death warrant, you have to understand the world I came from.

You have to understand the golden cage.

I was born into a life that most people only see in movies.

My father was King Abdul Laziz, the founder of the modern kingdom.

My brothers were kings and crowned princes.

My blood was considered royal, sacred, the blood of the custodians of the two holy mosques.

From the moment I took my first breath, my life was scripted.

I didn’t have a childhood.

I had a curriculum.

Before I could walk properly, I was being taught how to stand, how to sit, how to speak to elders.

My playground was a palace with marble floors that were polished until they looked like water.

My toys were anything I pointed at.

If I wanted a pony, a stable was built.

If I wanted a car, a fleet was delivered.

We lived in Riad in a compound that was essentially a city within a city.

High walls topped with razor wire and cameras separated us from the common people.

Inside those walls, it was a paradise.

Lush gardens with fountains that sprayed water, cooled by hidden machines, defying the desert heat.

Servants who appeared silently when you needed something and vanished just as silently when you didn’t.

I remember my 12th birthday.

My father gave me a watch.

It was solid gold encrusted with diamonds worth more than what an average Saudi family earned in a lifetime.

I put it on my wrist feeling its heavy cold weight.

This is time Khaled, my father told me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

Remember our time belongs to Allah and to the kingdom.

Never forget who you are.

Who was I? I was a prince.

That was my identity.

That was my religion.

That was my purpose.

I grew up devout.

I wasn’t just a cultural Muslim.

I was a true believer.

I memorized the Quran.

I prayed five times a day, pressing my forehead to the plush prayer rugs imported from Persia.

I fasted during Ramadan with a zeal that impressed even the religious scholars who tutored me.

I believed with every fiber of my being that we were the chosen ones, that Islam was the perfect path, and that my family was its greatest defender.

But there was a problem.

a flaw in the perfect diamond of my life.

It started as a small crack, a feeling of dot dot dot emptiness.

It usually hit me at night.

I would be lying in my massive bed under sheets made of Egyptian cotton, staring up at a ceiling painted with intricate geometric patterns.

The palace was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning.

And in that silence, I would feel a hollow ache in my chest.

I had everything.

money, power, respect, women, cars.

I could fly to Paris for dinner and be back in Riad for breakfast.

I could buy anything my eyes desired, but I couldn’t buy peace.

I remember one night specifically.

I was 25.

I had just returned from a party in London, a wild hedonistic blur of alcohol, drugs, and women that we, the royals, indulged in when we were away from the prying eyes of the religious police.

We lived a double life in Riad.

We were pious, sober, holy.

In London or Paris or Los Angeles, we were gods of pleasure.

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, my head throbbing from a hangover, looking at myself in the mirror.

The man staring back at me looked exhausted.

His eyes were dark, empty pools.

I looked at the phobe hanging in my closet, the white symbol of purity, and I felt a wave of nausea.

Hypocrite, I whispered to the reflection.

You are a liar.

I tried to drown the voice with more religion.

I prayed harder.

I gave millions to charity.

I sponsored the building of mosques in poor countries.

I went on Hajj, circling the Cabba, weeping, begging Allah to fill the void.

Allah, why are you silent? I would scream in my heart as I merged with the sea of whiteclad pilgrims.

I am doing everything right.

Why do I feel so dead? But there was no answer.

Only the chanting of the crowd, only the oppressive heat, only the silence of a god who demanded submission but offered no intimacy.

The emptiness grew.

It became a physical pain.

A black hole in the center of my being that sucked in all the light.

I started to resent the luxury.

The gold faucets in the bathroom mocked me.

The Ferraris in the garage felt like coffins on wheels.

What good is it to own the world if your soul is starving? And then the paranoia set in the royal family.

Trust is a luxury we cannot afford.

Brothers plot against brothers.

Nephews plot against uncles.

It is a game of thrones played with smiles and poison tea.

I started to see enemies everywhere.

I knew that my half-brother, the crown prince, was consolidating power.

I knew he saw me not as a brother, but as a potential rival.

I was rich, powerful, and utterly alone.

I was a prisoner in a palace, a prince of nothing.

The fall happened fast.

It wasn’t a slow decline.

It was a cliff drop.

I had been vocal about my dissatisfaction.

Not with Islam.

I wouldn’t dare question the faith yet, but with the hypocrisy I saw in the family.

I criticized the corruption.

I questioned the decisions being made that seemed to favor personal wealth over the good of the people.

I thought I was being a good adviser.

I thought I was showing leadership.

I was wrong.

In a dictatorship, criticism is not leadership.

It is treason.

The summons came at 3:00 a.

m.

That’s when they always come.

The time when the human spirit is weakest.

My door burst open.

No knock.

No, your highness.

Just men in black tactical gear.

Faces covered.

Machine guns pointed at my chest.

Prince Khaled.

One of them barked.

You are to come with us.

They didn’t handcuff me.

They would be too undignified for a royal.

But the threat was clear.

I was escorted out of my own palace, past the servants who looked away, terrified to witness my shame.

I was shoved into the back of an armored SUV.

We drove into the desert.

For a terrifying hour, I thought this was it.

I thought I was going to be taken to a remote dune and put down like a sick camel.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I recited the shahada over and over, preparing to die, but they didn’t kill me.

Not physically.

The car stopped at a private airirstrip.

A small jet was waiting, engines whining.

You are leaving, the officer said, handing me a passport.

You are never to return.

If your foot touches Saudi soil again, you die.

If you speak to the press, you die.

If you try to contact your supporters, you die.

Where am I going? I asked, my voice trembling.

Away was the only answer.

I was flown to Jordan.

A man, a city of beige stone and hills, a place where many exiles go to fade away.

They set me up in an apartment.

It was nice by normal standards, but compared to my palace, it was a shoe box.

They gave me a stipen enough to live, but not enough to wield power.

They stripped me of my titles, my influence, my purpose.

The first few months were a blur of shock and rage.

I paced the apartment like a caged tiger.

I threw glasses against the wall.

I screamed at the empty rooms.

Do you know who I am? I yelled at the silence.

I am Prince Khaled.

But the silence didn’t care.

Ammon is a beautiful city, but to me it was a prison without bars.

I was watched.

I knew the Makabraat, the intelligence service, was tracking my every move.

I saw the same cars parked down the street.

I heard the clicks on my phone line.

The isolation was absolute.

My friends in Riad stopped answering my calls.

My family cut me off.

I was radioactive.

To be associated with me was political suicide.

So, I stopped trying.

I sank.

I sank into a deep, dark depression.

The void I had felt in the palace expanded until it swallowed me whole.

I stopped shaving.

I stopped praying.

What was the point? Allah had abandoned me.

My family had abandoned me.

I turned to the only comfort I could find, numbing the pain.

Alcohol, which had been a secret indulgence, became my daily bread.

I drank to forget who I was.

I drank to stop the voices in my head that told me I was a failure, a disgrace.

I started wandering the streets of Aman at night, a ghost in expensive clothes that were slowly becoming tired.

I looked at the refugees from Syria and Iraq, people who had lost everything to war, and I felt a strange kinship with them.

We were all unwanted.

We were all debris washed up on the shore of history.

One night, sitting in a dingy cafe filled with smoke and the sound of back gammon dice, I looked at my hands.

They were shaking.

These hands that had once worn a diamond encrusted watch were now holding a cheap glass of whiskey.

Who are you? I asked myself.

I didn’t have an answer anymore.

Prince Khaled was dead.

There was only this shell, this empty vessel filled with bitterness and regret.

I tried to find God again.

I went to the blue mosque in Ammon.

I prostrated myself on the carpet.

I cried out, “Allah, if you are there, show me a sign.

Tell me why I am here.

Give me justice.

Silence.

Just the dusty smell of the carpet and the murmur of other men praying.

The silence of Allah is the loudest sound in the world.

It breaks you.

It tells you that you are cosmic dust, insignificant, unloved.

I walked out of that mosque and I knew I would never go back.

I was done.

If God wouldn’t speak to me, I wouldn’t speak to him.

I retreated into my apartment, closing the curtains, sealing myself in darkness.

Days turned into weeks.

I sat on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles, staring at the wall.

The despair was physical.

It felt like a heavy stone sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I realized then that the golden cage of Riion was better than this.

At least there the cage was pretty.

Here, the cage was just dot dot dot empty.

And in that emptiness, a dark thought began to take root.

A whisper that started soft but grew louder every day.

Why suffer? Why prolong the humiliation? There is a way out, permanent way out.

I looked at the bathroom door.

I thought about the pills in the cabinet.

Yes, I whispered to the darkness.

It is time to sleep forever.

The decision to die didn’t come with a bang.

It didn’t come with a dramatic scream or a tearful letter.

It came with a whisper, a cold, logical whisper that sounded exactly like my own voice.

It was a Tuesday night in November.

The winter chill had settled over Amen, seeping through the thin windows of my apartment.

I had spent the last 3 days lying on a rug in the living room, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like the outline of the Arabian Peninsula.

I hadn’t eaten.

I hadn’t showered.

The bottle of whiskey on the table was empty, and the numbness I usually relied on was fading, replaced by a sharp, jagged pain in the center of my chest.

I stood up.

My legs felt heavy, like they were filled with lid.

I walked to the bathroom.

The fluorescent light flickered on with a buzzing sound that graded against my nerves.

I looked in the mirror.

The man staring back at me was a stranger.

His eyes were sunken, rimmed with dark purple bruises of exhaustion.

His beard was unckempt.

His skin was gray.

Where was the prince? Where was the arrogance? Where was the blood of kings gone? All that was left was a husk.

A ghost haunting a body that refused to stop breathing.

I opened the medicine cabinet.

It was a mess of prescription bottles, sleeping pills, anti-depressants, painkillers.

Doctors in Jordan are very generous when a Saudi prince asks for relief.

They don’t ask questions.

They just write the scripts.

I looked at the bottles lined up like little soldiers.

And suddenly the solution seems so simple, so elegant.

Why continue to fight a war you have already lost? Why wake up to another day of silence from God and rejection from family? Peace was right there.

It was trapped inside those little orange bottles.

I took them down one by one.

I lined them up on the cold porcelain of the sink.

I turned on the tap.

The water ran clear and cold.

I cupped my hands and drank, washing away the taste of stale alcohol.

Then, with a steady hand, I began to open the bottles.

I poured the pills onto the counter.

White ones, blue ones, yellow ones, a colorful mosaic of death.

I remember thinking how pretty they looked against the white ceramic, like candy, like the sweets my nanny used to give me when I was a boy in the palace gardens.

I didn’t hesitate.

I didn’t think about my mother.

I didn’t think about my brothers.

I thought only of the silence, the beautiful eternal silence that was waiting for me.

I scooped up a handful.

I threw them into my mouth.

I swallowed, then another handful, and another.

I kept going until the counter was empty, until my stomach felt heavy and full.

I walked back to the living room.

I laid down on the floor.

I didn’t want to die in the bed.

The bed felt too human, too hopeful.

The floor was hard and cold and honest.

I closed my eyes and waited.

At first, nothing happened.

Then, the edges of my vision began to blur.

A heavy warmth started in my belly and spread to my limbs.

My heart rate began to slow.

Thump dot dot dot thump dot dot dot thump.

It was slowing down like a clock running out of battery.

But then the panic hit.

It wasn’t the regret of dying.

It was the terror of the unknown.

As the darkness began to close in around my mind, stripping away my thoughts one by one.

I realized I was stepping off a cliff into an abyss.

I had been taught about hell.

I had been taught about the grave, but this felt like dot dot dot eraser.

I was being deleted from the universe.

My breathing became shallow.

My lungs felt like they were filled with concrete.

I tried to gasp for air, but my diaphragm wouldn’t respond.

My body was shutting down.

The paralysis was creeping up from my toes, locking my muscles.

I couldn’t move my fingers.

I couldn’t open my eyes.

I was trapped in my own corpse.

And in that final moment, as the last spark of consciousness flickered like a dying candle in a storm, I felt the absolute crushing weight of my sin.

Not just the drinking, not just the pride, but the sin of unbelief, the sin of rejecting the creator.

I was falling, falling into a black hole that had no bottom.

I tried to scream.

I tried to call out to my father.

I tried to call out to Muhammad.

I tried to call out to Allah.

But my mind was blank.

There was no one there.

This is it, I thought.

This is the end of Khaled.

The darkness swallowed me whole.

The sound of the world faded away.

The buzzing of the fridge, the traffic outside, the beating of my own heart.

Silence.

Absolute.

Terrifying.

Silence.

Silence.

I don’t know how long I was in the dark.

It could have been a second.

It could have been a thousand years.

Time didn’t exist in that place.

But then something pierced the void.

It started as a pin prick, a tiny microscopic dot of pure white light in the center of the infinite blackness.

It was pulsating and it was growing.

It rushed toward me with the speed of a supernova.

It wasn’t just light.

It was sound.

It was a roar like the crashing of a million ocean waves, like the sound of a rushing wind.

It hit me with a physical force that should have shattered me, but instead of pain, it brought dot dot dot life.

I gasped.

My eyes flew open.

I wasn’t in my apartment anymore.

I wasn’t on the floor in a man.

I was standing on a foundation of glass, clear as crystal, suspended in a space that was filled with light.

But there was no sun.

The light was coming from a figure standing in front of me.

He was tall.

He was wearing a robe that looked like it was woven from the rays of the morning star.

It was white, but a white so bright it contained every color in the spectrum.

His feet were like burnished bronze, glowing with heat.

Around his waist was a sash of gold.

I tried to look at his face, but the brilliance was too intense.

It was like looking into the heart of a nuclear explosion, yet my eyes didn’t burn.

I felt a wave of power emanating from him.

power so absolute that galaxies could be born from his breath.

But layered within that power was a love so fierce, so consuming that it brought me to my knees.

I fell on my face.

My body was trembling, not with fear, but with awe.

The kind of awe that unmakes you.

I knew instantly, instinctively, who this was.

This was not a prophet.

This was not an angel.

This was the I am.

Coled, a voice said.

It sounded like thunder.

It sounded like a whisper.

It sounded like many waters.

He knew my name.

[clears throat] Stand up, he commanded.

I felt the strength enter my spine, lifting me up.

I stood trembling.

I raised my eyes.

And as I looked, the brilliance around his face softened just enough for me to see his eyes.

They were like flames of fire, burning with compassion.

He extended his hand and there on his wrist was a scar, a deep jagged mark.

“I am Jesus,” he said.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” Then the scene changed.

The crystal floor beneath us dissolved, and suddenly we were floating high above the earth.

I looked down.

I saw the globe spinning in the darkest of space.

But my eyes were drawn to one specific place, the Middle East.

I saw the outline of the Arabian Peninsula.

I saw the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf.

I saw the vast expanse of the Rub Alcali desert.

It looked dark, covered in a greenish shadow.

“Look,” Jesus said.

He pointed his scarred hand toward Saudi Arabia.

“As I watched, a single drop of liquid fire fell from his hand.

It was cold and red, burning with a holy intensity.

It fell through the atmosphere.

It struck the city of Riad.

Boom.

Where it landed, the ground ignited, but it wasn’t a destructive fire.

It didn’t burn the buildings or the people.

It was a spiritual fire.

It was light.

I saw the fire spreading.

It moved like water flowing through the streets of Riyad.

It entered the palaces.

It entered the shopping malls.

It entered the mosques.

I zoomed in with supernatural vision.

I saw people sleeping in their beds.

As the fire touched them, they woke up.

They sat up in their beds, weeping, raising their hands to heaven.

I saw thousands of Saudis men in thes, women and nicobs falling to their knees, calling out the name of Jesus.

The fire spread west.

It hit Chedda.

It hit Medina.

It hit Mecca.

I gasped.

Lord, I whispered.

Mecca, I am taking over, he said.

His voice echoed with the authority of a king claiming his territory.

I am building my church in the desert.

The gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

The map of Saudi Arabia was no longer dark.

It was blazing with golden light.

It was a beacon.

The light was so bright it began to spill over the borders into Yemen, into Oman, into the Amirates, into Jordan.

I have chosen you, Jesus said, turning his burning eyes back to me.

You wanted to die, but I have ordained you to live.

You will go back.

You will tell them what you have seen.

You will tell them that I am alive.

You will tell them that I am here.

But they will kill me.

I stammered.

I am an exile.

I am nothing.

He smiled.

And in that smile, I saw the victory of the cross.

They cannot touch a hair on your head until your work is done.

Do not fear those who kill the body, but cannot kill the soul.

Fear God and know that I am with you always.

He reached out and touched my chest right where the pain had been.

He intense searing heat surged through my body.

It burned away the alcohol.

It burned away the depression.

It burned away the poison of the pills.

It burned away the prince.

“Go,” he said.

And then the light exploded.

I woke up with a gasp, my lungs sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface.

I sat up violently.

I was back in my apartment in Aman.

I was on the floor.

The empty pill bottles were still on the counter.

The smell of sickness was in the air.

I scrambled to the bathroom and wretched.

My body violently expelled the poison.

I spent the next hour shivering on the bathroom tiles, sweating out the toxins.

Physically, I should have been dead, or at least in a coma.

The amount I had taken was enough to stop the hearts of three men.

But as I lay there, weak and trembling, I realized something strange.

The heaviness was gone.

The black stone that had been sitting on my chest for years, dot dot dot, it had vanished.

My mind was clear.

My heart felt dot dot dot light.

I looked in the mirror.

My face was pale.

My eyes were bloodshot.

But there was a light in them that hadn’t been there before.

The dead ghost was gone.

Someone else was looking back at me.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

The name tasted sweet on my tongue.

“Jesus!” I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know any Christians.

I didn’t have a Bible.

All I had was the memory of the man in white and the map on fire.

But I knew I couldn’t stay in that apartment.

I had to find dot dot people, his people.

I remembered a man, a Syrian refugee named Yousef, who worked at a local bakery.

I had overheard him once talking to someone about Al-Masi, the Messiah.

I had ignored him then, thinking he was just a confused infidel.

Now he was my only lifeline.

I washed my face.

I put on clean clothes.

I walked out into the streets of Ammon.

The world looked different.

The color seemed brighter.

The noise of the city didn’t irritate me.

It sounded like life.

I found Yousef at the back of the bakery kneading dough.

He looked at me, a disheveled Saudi man with desperate eyes, and he wiped the flower from his hands.

“Can I help you?” he asked cautiously.

“I need to know about the man in white,” I said.

“Yousef froze.

” He looked around to make sure no one was listening.

Then he looked deep into my eyes.

He saw something there.

He saw the fire.

A smile broke across his face, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took me to a small basement apartment in a poor neighborhood.

There were about 12 people there.

Syrians, Iraqis, Jordanians, people who had lost everything.

Former Muslims who had found Jesus.

They were singing when we walked in.

No instruments, just voices.

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.

When I walked in, the singing stopped.

They looked at me with fear.

A Saudi, a Wahhabi? Was I a spy? Was I there to report them? Yousef stepped forward.

Brother, sisters, this is dot dot dot.

He looked at me.

What is your name? I was Prince Khaled, I said, my voice breaking.

But today, dot dot dot.

I am just a beggar who found bread.

I told them everything.

I told them about the pills, the darkness, the light, the map.

When I finished, it wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

These people who had every reason to hate a Saudi royal surrounded me.

They hugged me.

They prayed over me.

For the first time in my life, I felt family.

Real family.

Not based on bloodlines or titles or political alliances, but based on the blood of Jesus.

For the next 6 months, I disappeared into the underground church.

I who had lived in palaces with servants to wash my feet began to learn what it meant to serve.

Yousef became my mentor.

He didn’t care about my royal title.

He treated me like a new convert who needed discipline.

In the kingdom of God, the leader is the one who serves.

Yousef told me one day, handing me a mop.

The toilets need cleaning, Khalid.

I looked at the mop.

I looked at the dirty bathroom of our meeting place.

My pride flared up for a second.

I am a prince.

I do not clean toilets.

Then I remembered the scar on Jesus’ wrist.

I remembered that the King of Glory washed the feet of fishermen.

I took them up and as I scrubbed that floor weeping, I felt more dignity than I ever felt sitting on a velvet throne.

I was being stripped of my ego layer by layer.

I was learning that my identity was not in my last name, but in my new master.

I devoured the Bible.

I read it for 10 hours a day.

It was like water to a man dying of thirst.

The prophecies, the Psalms, the Gospels, they all made sense now.

The veil had been lifted.

I saw Jesus on every page.

Then came the day of my baptism.

We went to the Jordan River.

Not the tourist site with the crowds, but a quiet muddy bend in the river hidden by reads.

It was early morning.

The air was crisp.

Yousef stood in the water.

I waited in.

The water was cold, shocking my sister.

Ked, Yousef said, his voice echoing off the water.

Do you renounce Satan and all his works? I do.

Do you renounce your old life, your pride, and your sin? I do.

Do you declare that Jesus Christ is the son of God and your only savior? I declare it.

Then I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

He dunked me backward.

The water closed over my face.

The sound of the world was muffled.

For a second, I was back in the darkness of death, but then he pulled me up.

I broke the surface, gasping, water streaming down my face.

I raised my hands to the sky and let out a shout of victory that scared a flock of birds from the trees.

Hallelujah.

I am alive.

The first was no longer Prince Collid the exile.

I was Called the beloved.

I was a son of God.

But as I walked out of that water, shivering and joyous, Yousef handed me a towel and looked at me with a serious expression.

God has saved you for a purpose, Khaled, he said quietly.

He didn’t just save you to clean toilets in Aman.

He showed you that map for a reason.

I froze a map.

The fire in Riad.

You have to go back, Yousef said.

My heart stopped.

Go back to Saudi Arabia.

To the land of the religious police, to the family that wanted me dead.

If I go back, they will kill me, I whispered.

Maybe, Yousef said, but how will the fire spread if no one carries the torch? I looked at the water flowing past us.

I thought about the comfort of my new life here.

It was safe.

It was anonymous.

I could live out my days as a simple Christian refugee.

But then I saw the face of Jesus again.

I heard his voice.

I am taking over.

He didn’t call me to safety.

He called me to follow him.

And he walked all the way to a cross.

I need to prepare, I said, the fear in my stomach turning into a cold, hard resolve.

I need to go home.

Before we continue to the dangerous journey back into the lion’s den, I want to ask you something.

If you are feeling that fire in your heart right now, if you believe that God can change a nation like Saudi Arabia, please hit the subscribe button.

By subscribing, you are joining a community that prays for the persecuted church.

You are helping these stories reach more people who need hope.

Don’t just watch join the movement.

Click subscribe and let’s carry this torch together.

Now, let me tell you how a wanted man smuggles himself back into the most strictly controlled kingdom on earth.

Going back to Saudi Arabia wasn’t as simple as buying a ticket for a man with a death sentence on his head.

The front door is closed.

You have to find a window or in my case, a crack in the wall.

The preparation took 3 months.

3 months of transforming Prince Khaled into someone else entirely.

We couldn’t use my real name.

We couldn’t use my real face.

I had to become invisible.

I had to become a ghost.

Yousef introduced me to a man known only as the surgeon.

He wasn’t a medical doctor.

He was an artist of identity.

He worked out of a small windowless room in the back of a mechanic shop in downtown Ammon.

The air smelled of grease and acetone.

“Sit,” he commanded, pushing me into a barber’s chair.

For the next 4 hours, he dismantled my face.

He shaved the royal beard that I had groomed meticulously for years.

He dyed my skin, darkening it to look like a man who spent his days working under the sun, not sitting in air conditioned palaces.

He altered my hairline.

He gave me colored contacts that turned my distinctive hazel eyes into a common muddy brown.

When he handed me the mirror, I didn’t recognize the man staring back.

Prince Khaled was gone.

In his place was Abdullah al- Rashid, a mid-level logistics manager for a construction company.

A nobody, a man you wouldn’t look at twice.

“This is your life now,” the surgeon said, handing me a passport.

It was a masterpiece.

The stamps were perfect.

The holograms were flawless.

It felt heavy in my hand, heavier than the gold watch I used to wear.

This little booklet was the only shield standing between me and a public execution.

Memorize it.

He said, “Your birthday, your mother’s maiden name, your address in Jedha.

If you hesitate for one second at the border, you are dead.

” I spent the next two weeks living as Abdullah.

I walked differently.

I changed my posture.

A prince walks with his chest out, expecting the world to move for him.

Abdullah walked with a slight stoop, the posture of a man who is used to carrying burdens.

I practiced my backstory until I could recite it in my sleep.

The plan was audacious.

The World Economic Forum was hosting a regional summit in Riyad.

It was a massive event.

Thousands of international delegates, heavy security, chaos.

It was a perfect cover.

The kingdom wanted to show its modern face to the world.

They would be focused on protecting foreign dignitaries, not looking for a dead prince.

My flight was scheduled for January 14th.

Royal Jordanian Airlines flight 702 to King Khaled International Airport in Riad.

The morning of the flight, I woke up vomiting.

My body was revoling against the danger.

My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t button my shirt.

I had to sit on the edge of the bed and breathe.

Lord, I whispered, clutching the cheap polyester shirt of my disguise.

I can’t do this.

I am terrified.

I opened my Bible to Psalm 23.

Yay, though I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

I wasn’t just walking through the valley.

I was flying straight into the heart of it.

The airport in Aman was a blur of noise and anxiety.

Every police officer I saw looked like an executioner.

Every glance from a stranger felt like an accusation.

I kept my head down, clutching my carry-on bag, which contained nothing but a change of clothes and a flash drive containing my video testimony just in case I didn’t make it to the microphone.

Boarding the plane felt like stepping into a coffin.

The cabin smelled of recycled air and stale coffee.

I found my seat in economy class row 24, seat B.

I was squeezed between a businessman typing furiously on a laptop and a mother trying to calm a crying baby.

As the plane taxied down the runway, I looked out the window.

The ground fell away.

There was no turning back now.

We were in the air, suspended between heaven and hell.

The flight took 2 hours.

2 hours of silent prayer.

2 hours of sweating.

When the captain announced our descent into Riad, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I looked down at the city lights sprawling across the desert floor.

Riad, my home, my prison, my mission field.

It looked beautiful from above.

A grid of gold and amber lights.

Somewhere down there was my father.

Somewhere down there was my mother.

Were they sleeping? Were they thinking of the sun they had erased from their memory? The plane landed with a jolt.

We taxied to the gate.

The doors opened.

The heat of the Arabian night rushed in, smelling of jet fuel and dust.

That smell, it triggered a thousand memories.

It smelled like childhood.

It smelled like danger.

I walked down the jetway, my legs feeling like jelly.

This was the first test.

Immigration.

The hall was crowded.

Long lines of people snaked back and forth.

I got in the line for GC citizens.

I watched the officer in the booth ahead.

He was young, bored, stamping passports with a rhythmic thud, dash, thud, dash, thud.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t care.

But then the line moved.

I was next.

I walked up to the booth.

I handed over my passport.

My hand was steady, a miracle itself.

The officer took it.

He scanned it.

He looked at the screen.

Then he stopped.

He frowned.

He typed something on his keyboard.

He looked at the screen again.

Then he looked up at me.

Time stopped.

The noise of the airport faded into a dull roar.

I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

He knows.

The system flagged me.

It’s over.

Abdullah al- Rasheed, the officer asked.

Yes, I said.

My voice was calm deeper than usual.

That is me.

You have been away for a long time, he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Working in Jordan? Yes, I replied, sticking to the script.

Construction logistics.

The company sent me back for the summit.

He looked at me for a long second.

His eyes searched my face.

Did he see the prince under the dye? Did he recognize the nose, the jawline of the sod family? I held his gaze.

I didn’t blink.

I prayed silently.

Jesus blind his eyes.

Cover me with your shadow.

The officer sighed.

He looked back down at the passport.

He raised his hand.

Thud.

The stamp hit the paper.

Welcome home, he grunted, sliding the passport back to me.

I took it.

I walked past the booth.

I didn’t run.

I didn’t look back.

I walked through the sliding glass doors and into the arrival’s hall.

I was in.

I was standing on Saudi soil.

A dead man walking.

A car was waiting for me.

Not a limousine this time, but a beat up Toyota Camry driven by a contact from the underground church.

His name was Ahmed.

He didn’t look at me.

He just opened the door.

“Get in,” he whispered.

We drove into the city.

Riad had changed in the two years I had been gone.

New skyscrapers pierced the night sky.

Giant billboards advertised the summit, displaying the face of the crown prince, my brother.

His eyes seemed to follow me as we drove down King Fa Road.

The venue is locked down tight, Ahmed said, his eyes flicking to the rear view mirror.

Metal detectors, facial recognition, snipers on the roof.

Getting you inside is going to be the hardest part.

I have a pass, I said, patting my pocket.

We had forged a media credential for Abdullah al- Rasheed.

A pass is just paper, Ahmed said grimly.

If they scan your retina, if they check your biometrics, paper won’t save you.

We pulled up to a safe house in the old quarter of the city, a small non-escript department building.

We went inside.

The room was sparse, a mattress on the floor, a table with a map of the convention center spread out.

Tomorrow is the big pleenery session, Ahmed explained, tracing a line on the map.

All the major news networks will be broadcasting live.

CNN, BBC, Al Jazera.

The keynote speech starts at 10:00 a.

m.

That is your window.

I looked at the map.

I looked at the stage layout.

I need to get to the main microphone, I said.

The one on the podium.

That’s the VIP zone.

Ahmed shook his head.

Only speakers and royal family members are allowed there.

The security perimeter is tight.

I know the layout, I said.

I helped design the security protocols for this building 5 years ago.

Ahmad looked at me surprised.

He had forgotten who I [clears throat] used to be.

There is a service corridor behind the stage.

I pointed to a thin line on the blueprint.

It’s used for audio technicians.

If I can get into the AV room, I can access that corridor.

It comes out right behind the main curtain.

It’s risky.

Ahmed said, “If they catch you back there, if they catch me anywhere, I am dead.

” I cut him off.

Risk is not the variable anymore.

The only variable is obedience.

I spent that night on the floor, unable to sleep.

I listened to the sounds of the city, the distant honking of cars, the call to prayer echoing from the minouetses at dawn.

Allahu Akbar.

Allahu Akbar.

It used to bring me comfort.

Now, it sounded like a challenge, a declaration of spiritual war.

I was about to walk into the stronghold of the enemy and plant a flag for Jesus Christ.

I was about to declare war on the spiritual powers that held my nation captive.

Before we move to the final moments, the moments where I step onto that stage and face my destiny, I want to pause.

Maybe you are watching this and you feel like you are on a dangerous mission, too.

Maybe you are the only Christian in your family.

Maybe you are working in a hostile environment.

Maybe you feel like you are undercover, afraid to speak up.

I want you to know that you are not alone.

The same God who hid me from the eyes of the immigration officer is with you.

If you need courage today, I want you to type courage in the comments below.

Let’s encourage each other.

Let’s be an army of brave souls.

Now take a deep breath with me because the sun is rising over Riad and it is time to go to the slaughter.

The morning of January 15th broke with a blinding white sun.

The sky was a hard pale blue stripped of clouds.

It was the kind of heat that presses down on you, heavy and relentless.

I put on my disguise for the last time.

The brown contact lenses.

The cheap suit that didn’t fit quite right.

The media badge clipped to my lapel.

Amdi drove me to the perimeter of the convention center.

The streets were blocked off with concrete barriers.

Police cars were everywhere, lights flashing blue and red.

This is as close as I can get, Amed said.

He didn’t look at me.

His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white.

God be with you, brother.

And with you, I said.

I opened the door and stepped out into the heat.

The noise of the crowd hit me instantly, delegates shouting into phones, security guards blowing whistles, the hum of generators.

I walked toward the media entrance.

My legs felt mechanical, like they belonged to someone else.

Step, step, I passed the first checkpoint.

The guard glanced at my badge, waved me through.

I passed the metal detector.

It beeped.

My heart stopped.

Belt, the guard grunted.

I took off my belt.

I walked through again.

Silence.

Move, he commanded.

I was inside.

The lobby of the convention center was a cavern of glass and steel, buzzing with thousands of people.

The air conditioning was freezing cold, a sharp contrast to the furnace outside.

I navigated through the crowd, keeping my head down, moving with purpose.

I found the service elevator.

I slipped inside just as the doors were closing.

I pressed the button for the basement level.

The hallway to the AV room was empty.

I walked fast.

I found the door marked authorized personnel only.

It was locked.

I pulled out a small tension wrench for my pocket of skill.

I had learned from a lockpicking video on YouTube during my exile.

I worked the lock.

Click.

I slipped inside.

The room was dark, filled with racks of servers and blinking lights.

I moved to the back, finding the access door to the stage corridor.

I opened it, and there I was backstage.

I could hear the muffled sound of the speaker on stage.

A minister was talking about renewable energy.

The audience was polite, clapping at the right intervals.

I found a dark corner behind a stack of road cases.

I had about 10 minutes before the transition.

10 minutes before the stage would be empty for a brief moment while they set up for the next speaker.

That’s when the attack happened.

It wasn’t physical.

It was mental.

As I stood there in the shadows, waiting to end my life as I knew it, a voice began to whisper in my ear.

It wasn’t an audible voice, but it was loud, screamingly loud.

You are a fool, Cullled.

The voice was tripping with venom.

It sounded like my father.

It sounded like my brother.

It sounded like my own insecurity.

Look at you hiding in the dark like a rat.

You think you are a hero.

You are a traitor.

You are a disgrace.

I squeezed my eyes shut trying to block it out.

They are going to kill you and no one will care.

You will be a headline for one day and then you will be forgotten.

You are throwing away your life for nothing, for a fairy tale, for a foreign god.

My hands started to shake.

uncontrollable tremors that traveled up my arms to my shoulders.

My knees knocked together.

The fear was physical.

It was a cold slime coating my insides.

“Just walk away,” the voice hissed.

“You can still leave.

You can go back out the service door.

Go back to Jordan.

Live a quiet life.

Why die today? Why cause your mother more pain? Haven’t you hurt her enough?” [snorts] That one hit hard.

My mother.

The image of her weeping face flashed in my mind.

Was I being selfish? Was this just ego? Was I just trying to prove something? I felt like I was suffocating.

The walls of the backstage area seemed to be closing in.

I couldn’t breathe.

I was going to pass out.

I was going to fail.

I can’t do it, I whispered.

I can’t.

I turned toward the exit.

I took a step away from the stage.

And then another voice spoke.

It didn’t come from my head.

It came from my chest.

It came from the place where the fire had touched me.

It was calm.

It was steady.

It was the sound of a mountain that cannot be moved.

Asterisk asterisk I am with you.

Asterisk asterisk just three words.

I stopped.

Asterisk asterisk be still and know that I am God.

The panic didn’t vanish, but something rose up to meet it.

A piece that didn’t make sense.

A piece that defied biology.

It was like a warm hand resting on my shoulder.

I remembered the map.

I remembered the fire spreading from Riad to Mecca.

I remembered the faces of the people in the underground church in Aman.

They were counting on me.

Jesus was counting on me.

I am not doing this for me.

I realized I am doing this for them.

I am doing this for the millions of Sadis who are dying in darkness.

I turned back toward the stage.

The shaking in my hands didn’t stop, but the shaking in my soul did.

Satan, I whispered into the darkness.

You are a liar, and today you lose.

I checked my watch.

Time.

The applause on stage swelled.

The minister was finishing.

The music started to play the transition music.

This was it.

I took a deep breath.

I adjusted my tie.

I touched the small cross I had hidden under my shirt, pressing the metal against my skin.

Lord, I prayed, give me the words, and if I die, dot dot, receive my spirit.

I stepped out from behind the cases.

I walked toward the curtain.

The light from the stage spilled through the opening.

It was blindingly bright.

I stepped into the light.

The transition between speakers is a chaotic moment.

Stage hands rushing to move chairs.

audio technicians adjusting mic stands.

In that chaos, I was invisible.

I walked with purpose, head up, looking like I belonged there.

I walked past a stage manager who was shouting into a headset.

He glanced at me, saw my suit, saw my badge, and assumed I was a translator or an assistant.

He looked away.

I kept walking.

Center stage.

The podium was there.

It was sleek, modern, made of glass and steel.

The seal of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was etched into the front.

The two cross swords and the palm tree, the symbol of my family, the symbol of my heritage.

I reached the podium.

I gripped the sides.

The glass was cold under my sweating palms.

The auditorium was massive.

From the stage, with the spotlights hitting me in the face.

The audience was just a vast dark ocean.

I couldn’t see individual faces, only rows and rows of white throbes in black abias stretching back into the darkness.

10,000 people.

The silence was heavy.

They were waiting for the next speaker.

They were waiting for a minister of finance or a foreign diplomat.

They got me.

I looked at the teleprompter.

It was blank.

I looked at the red tally light on the main camera.

It was glowing.

We were live.

I leaned into the microphone.

Peace be upon you, I said.

The traditional greeting as salamu allayikum.

My voice boomed through the massive speaker system.

It was steady, stronger than I felt.

The crowd murmured a polite response.

They were confused.

Who was this man? Why was he not announced? I took a breath.

This was the point of no return.

My name, I said, pausing to let the tension build, is Prince Khaled bin Abdulaziz al- Sad.

The reaction was instantaneous.

It started as a ripple in the front row.

A gasp, a rustle of fabric, and it spread backward like a wave.

The murmuring turned into a buzz of confusion.

Did he say Prince Khalid? Is that the exile? It cannot be.

He looks different.

I reached up to my face.

With a deliberate motion, I took out the colored contacts.

I dropped them on the podium.

Then I took a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the makeup from my forehead, revealing the distinctive scar above my eyebrow, a mark every Saudi knew from my youth.

I saw recognition dawn on the faces in the VIP section.

I saw my uncle sitting in the third row stand up.

His face went pale, his mouth opened in shock.

Sit down, someone shouted.

Security.

Another voice screamed.

I saw movement in the wings.

the royal guard.

Men in black suits with earpieces were sprinting toward the stage.

They were fast.

I had maybe 20 seconds before they reached me.

I didn’t rush.

I didn’t scream.

I leaned closer to the mic, my voice dropping to an intense, intimate register.

I stand here today a dead man, I said.

By the laws of this land, I am an apostate.

By the laws of my family, I am a traitor.

The guards were 10 m away.

I could hear their boots thuing on the stage floor, but I would rather die with the truth than live with a lie.

I roared, my voice cracking with emotion.

5 m.

I have seen him.

I pointed a finger toward the ceiling, toward heaven.

I have seen the man in white.

I have seen the fire on the map.

The first guard reached the podium.

He grabbed my arm.

I yanked it away with a strength I didn’t know I had.

I wrapped both arms around the microphone stand, anchoring myself to it.

Jesus Christ is Lord, I screamed.

The sound tore through the auditorium.

It was sacrilege.

It was revolution.

It was the name that breaks chains.

He is not a prophet.

He is the son of God.

And he is here.

He is in Saudi Arabia right now.

Two more guards grabbed me.

One had me in a headlock.

Another was punching me in the ribs.

I felt a rib crack.

The pain was sharp and white hot.

But I didn’t stop.

You cannot stop him.

I choked out, fighting for breath against the arm, crushing my windpipe.

He is waking up the people.

He is building his church.

The crowd was on its feet.

Some were screaming in anger.

Others were filming with their phones, capturing every second of the chaos.

I saw a woman in the middle row, her nickab covering her face, but her hands were raised.

She wasn’t protesting.

She was weeping.

She knew.

She was one of us.

Jesus loves you.

I gasped, my vision starting to tunnel as the chokeold tightened.

He died for you.

Ask him to show you.

Ask him.

They ripped me away from the podium.

The microphone stand fell over with a deafening screech of feedback that made everyone cover their ears.

They dragged me across the stage.

My feet trailed uselessly behind me.

They were kicking me, hitting me.

I tasted blood in my mouth.

It was warm and metallic.

But as they dragged me into the darkness of the wings, I didn’t feel fear.

I didn’t feel pain.

I felt joy.

Unspeakable, glorious joy.

I looked back one last time at the audience.

The camera was still rolling.

The red light was still on.

I smiled.

A bloody broken smile.

It is finished, I whispered.

Then a black bag was thrown over my head.

The world went dark.

The sounds of the crowd were muffled.

I felt the cold metal of handcuffs biting into my wrists.

I felt the prick of a needle in my neck.

The last thing I heard before consciousness faded was not the anger of the guards.

It was not the shouting of the crowd.

It was the sound of a fire starting.

A crackle of dry wood catching a spark.

The spiritual fire I had seen in my vision.

It had jumped from my heart to the heart of the nation.

And this time, no amount of sand could put it out.

They dragged me out the back door of the convection center.

The cool air of the air conditioning was replaced by the suffocating heat of the Riad afternoon.

They threw me into the back of an unmarked van.

No windows, just metal walls and the smell of sweat and fear.

I expected them to take me to the chop chop square.

I expected a public execution.

I expected the sword, but they didn’t take me to the square.

They took me to Alhur prison.

Allhur is a place that doesn’t officially exist on some maps.

It is a fortress of concrete and steel south of Riad, where the kingdom keeps its most dangerous enemies, terrorists, political dissident, and now apostic princes.

They stripped me of my suit.

They stripped me of my dignity.

They gave me a gray uniform that smelled of despair.

They threw me into solitary confinement.

A cell 2 m by 2 m.

No bed.

Just a hole in the floor and a Quran in the corner.

For the first week, they beat me.

Every day, the guards would come in.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just used their batons.

They wanted to break my body so that my spirit would follow.

They wanted me to regret the name I had shouted on that stage.

Recant, they would scream, spitting in my face.

Say it was a mistake.

Say you were drunk.

Say you are mentally ill.

It would have been so easy.

A few words and the pain would stop.

A few words and maybe I could go back to a comfortable house arrest.

But every time they hit me, every time my ribs cracked or my skin split, I felt something strange.

I l lighter.

I remembered the Apostle Paul in prison singing hymns at midnight.

I remember the early martyrs who went to the lions with smiles on their faces.

I realized that the pain was just a confirmation.

If the devil was attacking this hard, it meant I had struck a nerve.

It meant I had won.

So I didn’t recant.

I sang in the darkness of that cell with blood running down my face.

I sang the songs Yousef had taught me.

Great is thy faithfulness.

It is well with my soul.

My voice was cracked and weak, but it echoed off the concrete walls.

The guards didn’t know what to do with me.

They had seen men beg.

They had seen men cry.

They had seen men go insane.

But they had never seen a man rejoice while bleeding.

One night, a young guard came to my cell door.

He opened the sliding hatch.

I expected him to spit on me or throw in a bucket of slop, but he didn’t.

He looked at me with wide, fearful eyes.

Why? He whispered.

Why do you not scream? Why do you smile? I crawled to the door.

I looked him in the eye.

Because I am not alone in here, I whispered back.

He is with me.

The guard looked around the empty cell, confused.

Who? The man in white, I said.

Jesus.

The guard slammed the hatch shut and ran away.

But I knew.

I knew a seed had been planted.

They kept me in that cell for 6 months.

6 months of darkness, six months of silence.

But outside those walls, the fire was spreading.

I didn’t know it then, but the video of my confession had gone viral before the government could scrub it from the internet.

It had been shared on WhatsApp, on Telegram, on encrypted networks across the Middle East.

Millions of people had seen a Saudi prince declare Jesus as Lord.

The government tried to say it was a deep fake.

They tried to say I was on drugs.

They tried to say I was an agent of the west, but the people saw the fire in my eyes.

They saw the truth.

Reports started coming in.

Underground churches in Jedha were doubling in size.

Muslims in Medina were having dreams of a man in weight.

The spiritual wildfire I had seen in my vision was burning in reality.

Eventually, the pressure became too much.

The international outcry was deafening.

Human rights organizations, foreign governments, and millions of Christians around the world were demanding answers.

Where is Prince Khaled? Is he alive? A kingdom couldn’t kill me.

Not with the whole world watching, so they made a deal.

X one night at 3:00 a.

m.

The cell door opened.

I was blindfolded.

I was driven to the airport.

I was put on a private plane.

When the plane landed and the doors opened, I smelled rain.

Cold, fresh rain.

I wasn’t in Saudi Arabia anymore.

I was in Europe.

I was free.

But freedom came with a price.

I am now a man without a country.

I have been stripped of my citizenship.

My assets have been frozen.

My family has erased my name from the royal lineage.

To them, I am dead.

I live in a safe house now, moving every few months.

I have security details.

I have threats on my life every day.

People ask me, Khaled, was it worth it? You lost everything.

You lost the palaces, the Ferraris, the power, the family.

You are a refugee.

Was Jesus worth it? I look at them and I smile because they don’t understand the math of the kingdom of God.

I lost a crown of gold that would perish, but I gained a crown of life that will last forever.

I lost a family that loved me conditionally, but I gained a family of billions who love me eternally.

I lost the temporary pleasures of sin, but I gained the peace that passes all understanding.

Yes, he is worth it.

He is worth everything.

If I could go back to that stage in Riad, knowing the beatings that were waiting for me, knowing the prison cell, knowing the exile, dot dot, I would do it again a thousand times.

I would do it again because Jesus is better.

Now I want to speak to you.

I want to speak to the person watching this who feels like I did in that palace.

You have everything the world says you should want, but you are empty.

You are successful, but you are starving.

Or maybe you are the person in the prison cell.

You are suffering for your faith.

You are being rejected by your family.

You feel alone in the dark.

I want you to know that the man in white sees you.

He knows your name.

And he is closer to you than your own breath.

The fire that started in Riad is not just for Saudi Arabia.

It is for you.

It is for your home.

It is for your heart.

We are living in the days of prophecy.

We are seeing the impossible happen.

Princes are becoming pastors.

Terrorists are becoming missionaries.

The hardest ground in the world is bringing forth the greatest harvest.

But this harvest needs laborers.

It needs warriors.

It needs you.

I cannot go back to Saudi Arabia.

My physical work there is done.

But my spiritual work is just beginning.

And I need you to join me.

We are building a prayer wall around the Arabian Peninsula.

We are petitioning heaven to keep the fire burning.

If this story has touched your heart, if you feel the Holy Spirit moving right now, I want to ask you to do three things.

First, share this video.

The government tried to silence this testimony.

By sharing it, you are breaking the censorship.

You are spreading the light.

Send it to a friend who needs hope.

Post it on your social media.

Be a digital missionary.

Second, subscribe to this channel.

We are going to tell more stories like this.

Stories of the underground church, stories of miracles in the Middle East.

By subscribing, you are not just following a channel.

You are joining a movement.

You are saying, “I stand with the persecuted church.

” And third, and most importantly, I want you to pray with me right now, wherever you are, in your living room, in your car, in your office.

Stop what you are doing.

I want you to close your eyes.

I want you to imagine that map of the Middle East.

See it in your mind.

Now, extend your hand toward the screen.

I am extending my hand toward you.

Let’s connect in the spirit.

Let’s touch and agree.

Pause.

The camera zooms in slowly on Khaled’s face.

His eyes are intense, filled with tears.

He raises his hand as if touching the viewer through the glass.

Father, in the name of Jesus dot dot, I pray for the person on the other side of this screen.

Lord, you know their story.

You know their pain.

You know the empty places in their heart.

If they are lost, Lord, reveal yourself to them tonight.

Walk into their room just like you walked into my palace.

Let them see the man in white.

Let them feel the fire of your love.

If they are afraid, Lord, give them the courage of a lion.

Break the chains of fear off their lives.

Let them stand up for you in their workplace, in their family, in their city.

And Lord, we pray for Saudi Arabia.

We pray for my family.

We pray for my brother, the king.

Visit him in his dreams, Lord.

Show him who you are.

Turn the heart of the king like a water course.

We declare that the gates of hell shall not prevail.

We declare that the desert shall bloom.

We declare that every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

Fill this viewer with your Holy Spirit right now from the top of their head to the soles of their feet.

Let them feel your power.

Let them know they are loved.

Let them know they are chosen.

In the mighty matchless name of Jesus, we pray.

Amen.

Do not be afraid.

The fire has started and nothing can put it out.

I am Prince Khaled and I am a servant of the most high God.

Thank you for listening.

God bless you.