My name is Princess Fatima bint Hassan al-Shikh and I am a descendant of Muhammad Ibin Abd al-wahab the founder of Wahhabism whose teachings have shaped the kingdom of Saudi Arabia for 300 years.

My family are the guardians of Islamic Orthodoxy, the most powerful religious dynasty in the Muslim world.

On a business trip to El Salvador, I was involved in a terrible accident that took my life for several minutes.

During those moments between life and death, I met Jesus Christ face to face and he told me the plans he had for my life.

When I woke in a hospital and declared my faith in Jesus, my father arranged my arrest within hours.

I was transported in secret and deposited under a false identity in Secot, the Centro de Confinto del Terrorismo, a prison in El Salvador designed to hold 40,000 of the most dangerous criminals on the planet.

But I was not placed among ordinary prisoners.

I was hidden in a secret wing that the public does not know exists.

A section where female serial killers are buried away from the world forever.

No one knew I was there.

My family told no one.

I was erased from existence, condemned to suffer indefinitely among women who had murdered dozens without remorse.

My crime was meeting Jesus and refusing to deny him.

But what my family did not understand, what the corrupt officials who arranged my disappearance could never have anticipated, is that the Jesus I followed into that prison followed me there as well.

And what he did inside those walls converted 100 serial killers to faith, shook hardened murderers to their knees, and ignited a revival that continues to this day.

This is my testimony.

My father Shikh Hassan bin Omar al-Shik was not merely a parent but a living institution.

A man whose religious authority extended far beyond our household into mosques and Islamic universities across the globe.

He stood tall and imposing with a long white beard that reached his chest and eyes that could look through you and see every sin you had ever committed or contemplated.

When he spoke, everyone listened.

Not because he raised his voice, but because his words carried the weight of 300 years of religious scholarship and the backing of the Saudi state itself.

He served on the council of senior scholars, the highest religious authority in the kingdom, issuing fatwas that affected millions of Muslims worldwide and advising the royal family on matters ranging from criminal punishment to international diplomacy.

At home, he ruled with absolute authority derived not merely from cultural tradition, but from religious mandate.

To disobey my father was not simply disrespectful but sinful, a violation of Islamic teaching about honoring parents that carried consequences in this life and the next.

My mother, Lady Mariam Al-Shik, was everything my father was not in temperament while being everything he required in obedience.

She was soft-spoken and gentle with warm hands that would stroke my hair when I was sick and a voice that could make any trouble seem smaller than it really was.

She had been raised in another prominent religious family and had been married to my father at 17, spending her entire adult life serving his needs and raising his children according to the strict Islamic principles he demanded.

She taught me kindness through small acts that my father never witnessed, sneaking me treats when I had been denied them for some minor infraction, whispering words of comfort when his disapproval had reduced me to tears.

But she never contradicted him openly, never questioned his decisions, never suggested that any aspect of our religious life might be negotiable or subject to interpretation.

She had learned that survival in our family meant submission.

And she taught me the same lesson through her silent example.

I had one older brother named Abdul Rahman who was being groomed from childhood to follow in our father’s footsteps as a religious scholar and leader.

He was 7 years older than me, serious and studious, already memorizing complex religious texts while I was still learning to write my own name.

Abdul Rahman and I were never close because he viewed me primarily as a female who would eventually be married off to strengthen family alliances while he carried forward the sacred responsibility of our lineage.

He treated me with formal curtsy that maintained proper Islamic boundaries between male and female relatives.

Never harsh but never warm.

always aware that his destiny was scholarship and leadership while mine was domesticity and obedience.

I had a younger sister named Salma who was born when I was 6 years old.

A beautiful girl with huge brown eyes who became my closest companion in a household that often felt lonely despite being filled with people.

Salma and I would whisper together at night, sharing secrets that we knew could never reach our father’s ears, creating a private world where we could be children rather than representatives of a religious dynasty.

My youngest sibling was a brother named Ysef who arrived when I was 10 years old, the baby of our family and the unexpected joy of my father’s later years.

Ysef was different from Abdul Rahman.

playful and mischievous in ways that somehow escaped the harsh correction that would have fallen on anyone else in our household.

My father would smile at Ysef’s antics, a rare expression that transformed his stern face into something almost approachable, and I would watch with a mixture of happiness for my baby brother and quiet sadness that such gentleness had never been directed toward me.

I loved Ysef fiercely as I loved Salma, and I made silent promises to protect them from whatever hardships our family’s position might bring upon them.

I did not know then that those promises would one day be tested in ways I could never have imagined, that my love for my siblings would become a wound that distance and time would never fully heal.

The expectations placed upon me as a daughter of the house of Al-shik were absolute and non-negotiable.

A path laid out before my birth that I was expected to walk without deviation or complaint.

I was to be perfectly pious, demonstrating Islamic devotion that would honor our family’s religious legacy and provide an example for other Muslim women to follow.

I was to be completely modest, covering myself in black abaya and nikab whenever I left our compound, avoiding any interaction with unrelated men that might bring shame upon our name.

I was to be entirely obedient, submitting to my father’s authority until the day he transferred that authority to a husband he would select based on religious credentials and family connections rather than any consideration of my personal preferences.

I was to be thoroughly educated in Islamic sciences, Quranic interpretation and Arabic literature, knowledgeable enough to teach other women, but never so learned that I might challenge male religious authority.

I performed these expectations with outward perfection, while something deep inside me slowly withered from lack of nourishment I could not name.

But my father also recognized that I possessed intelligence and capability that could serve the family’s interests beyond traditional female roles.

So he arranged for me to receive education in international business and diplomacy alongside my religious training.

I learned English, French and Spanish from private tutors who came to our compound.

I studied economics and international relations through carefully monitored online programs that my father approved after ensuring they contained nothing that might corrupt my Islamic values.

I developed skills in negotiation and presentation that allowed me to represent family business interests in contexts where a polished, educated woman could access spaces that men could not enter without arousing suspicion.

My father saw me as a tool, a useful instrument for advancing family interests in international commerce while maintaining the religious purity that our name demanded.

He trusted me completely because I had never given him any reason to doubt my devotion to Islam and our family’s sacred mission.

That trust would lead him to send me on a journey to El Salvador that would shatter everything he believed about his obedient daughter and reveal purposes for my life that neither of us could have anticipated.

The assignment came on an ordinary Tuesday morning when my father summoned me to his private study, a room I had entered perhaps a dozen times in my entire life, and always with trembling hands and racing heart.

He sat behind his massive wooden desk surrounded by ancient Islamic texts and modern communication equipment.

The tools of a man who bridged centuries of religious tradition with contemporary global influence.

He told me that important business negotiations were taking place in El Salvador, a small country in Central America where our family had investments in agricultural exports and manufacturing facilities that generated significant income for charitable foundations we operated across the Muslim world.

The representatives who normally handled such matters were unavailable due to circumstances he did not explain and he needed someone he could trust.

absolutely to finalize agreements worth tens of millions of dollars.

He looked at me with those penetrating eyes and said that I had been chosen for this responsibility, that I would travel to San Salvador within the week, accompanied by a trusted emissary and security personnel who would ensure my safety and proper Islamic conduct throughout the journey.

I accepted the assignment with the outward composure expected of a daughter of the house of Al-shik, while my heart raced with a mixture of terror and excitement I dared not display.

I had traveled internationally before, always with family members and always to Muslim majority countries where my covering and conduct would not attract unusual attention.

El Salvador was entirely different.

a Christian nation in the Americas where I would stand out immediately as a foreign Muslim woman, navigating spaces designed for people whose lives looked nothing like mine.

I spent the following days preparing obsessively, studying files about the business negotiations, researching Salvadoran culture and customs, practicing my Spanish with tutors who helped me refine phrases I might need in professional contexts.

I packed modest professional clothing that met Islamic requirements while appearing appropriate for international business settings.

Dark colors and loose fabrics that would cover everything my faith demanded while projecting competence and seriousness.

I prayed constantly for success, asking Allah to guide my words and decisions so that I would not disappoint my father or disgrace our family name.

The journey from Riyad to San Salvador required multiple flights and nearly 24 hours of travel that left me exhausted but determined to fulfill my responsibility with excellence.

I was accompanied by Abdullah, a trusted emissary who had served my family for over 20 years and whose job was to advise me on negotiations while ensuring I maintained proper Islamic behavior throughout the trip.

Two security guards traveled with us as well.

Serious men who spoke little but watched everything with trained eyes that missed nothing in their assessment of potential threats.

We arrived at Monsenor Oscar Arnulfo Romero International Airport in the early afternoon.

Stepping from the climate controlled aircraft into tropical heat that hit me like a physical wall after the air conditioned environments I had inhabited for the past day.

The air smelled different here, thick with humidity and vegetation and something else I could not identify, a foreignness that reminded me with every breath that I was very far from home.

Our hotel was located in the Zona Rosa district of San Salvador, an upscale area filled with international businesses, embassies, and the kind of security presence that wealthy foreigners required in a country still recovering from decades of civil war and ongoing gang violence.

I rested briefly before reviewing the negotiation materials one final time, ensuring that every figure and clause was fresh in my mind for the meetings scheduled to begin the following morning.

Abdullah briefed me on the Salvador and businessmen we would be meeting, their backgrounds and motivations, and the pressure points that might help us secure favorable terms for our family’s interests.

I performed my evening prayers in the hotel room, bowing toward Mecca as I had done since childhood, reciting words that had become so familiar, they required no conscious thought to produce.

I slept poorly that night, my mind racing with anticipation and anxiety, dreams fragmenting into images I could not remember upon waking.

But that left me feeling unsettled in ways I could not explain.

The morning of the accident began with the call to fajger prayer echoing from my phone alarm in the darkness before dawn.

A reminder of religious duty that I fulfilled automatically before showering and dressing for the important day ahead.

I wore a navy blue abaya over a professional dress, a matching hijab that framed my face modestly, and minimal makeup that Abdullah had approved as appropriate for business settings without being immodest.

We ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant, reviewing final details of the negotiation strategy, while security personnel coordinated with local drivers who would transport us to the meeting venue in Santa Techla, a city about 15 km from our hotel.

The morning was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through tropical trees that lined the streets of San Salvador.

And I remember thinking that this country was beautiful in ways I had not anticipated from my research about its violent history and ongoing struggles with poverty and crime.

The vehicle that would carry us to the meeting was a black SUV with tinted windows and reinforced doors.

The kind of transportation that wealthy foreigners used to move safely through countries where kidnapping and robbery remained constant threats.

I sat in the back seat behind the driver with Abdullah beside me reviewing documents on his tablet and one security guard in the front passenger seat while the other followed in a separate vehicle behind us.

We departed the hotel at precisely 8:30 in the morning.

Navigating through San Salvador traffic that seemed chaotic compared to the ordered roads of Riyad.

motorcycles weaving between cars and buses, stopping unpredictably to collect passengers from unmarked locations along the route.

I watched the city pass through my tinted window, observing people whose lives were so different from mine, yet who shared the same human needs for safety and provision and meaning that I had always taken for granted.

I do not remember the impact itself, only the sudden sensation of the world spinning violently around me as our vehicle was struck by something massive that sent us rolling across the pavement in a chaos of shattering glass and screaming metal.

Later, I would learn that a cement truck had run a red light at high speed.

its driver perhaps drunk or perhaps simply reckless, slamming into our SUV with force that killed our driver instantly and left the rest of us broken and bleeding among the wreckage.

But in that moment, I knew nothing except darkness and pain and a strange floating sensation as my consciousness began separating from my body in ways that defied everything I had ever been taught about the physical world.

I felt myself rising upward, leaving behind the twisted metal and broken glass and the screaming that might have been coming from Abdullah or might have been coming from my own throat before it fell silent.

I looked down and saw my body crumpled and bleeding in the destroyed vehicle.

Saw emergency responders beginning to arrive at the scene.

saw the chaos of an accident that should have ended my life unfolding below me like a movie I was watching rather than experiencing.

Then the light appeared and everything I had ever believed about Allah and Islam and the nature of God himself shattered into pieces that would never fit together again in their original form.

The light was not like sunlight or electric light or any illumination I had ever encountered in my 28 years of existence.

It was warm and golden and somehow alive, radiating not just brightness, but love so profound and so personal that I began weeping before I even understood what I was weeping about.

From within that light, a figure emerged, walking toward me with steps that seemed to bend reality around his presence.

And I knew immediately that I was standing in the presence of someone whose authority exceeded anything my father or his council of scholars had ever possessed.

He was dressed in white garments that seemed woven from the same light that surrounded him.

And his face was more beautiful than any human face I had ever seen, radiating peace and power and something else that I can only describe as recognition.

As if he had known me since before I was born and had been waiting for this moment across all the years of my life.

He spoke my name, not Princess Fatima or daughter of Shik Hassan or any of the titles that had defined my identity since birth, but simply Fatima, spoken with an intimacy that made me feel more known and more loved than I had ever felt in my entire existence.

He told me that he was Jesus, the son of the living God, and that he had chosen me before the foundation of the world for purposes that would now begin to unfold.

He told me that I would suffer for his name, that my family would reject me and powers would rise against me, but that he would never leave me and would use my suffering to bring salvation to many who sat in darkness far deeper than any I had ever known.

He told me that I had a choice to make in this moment between two paths.

One leading back to the life I had always known and one leading forward into an unknown future where he would be my only certainty.

I looked into his eyes and saw there a love so vast and so unconditional that every religious teaching I had ever received about earning Allah’s favor through perfect obedience suddenly seemed like chains I had been wearing my entire life without realizing they were not freedom but bondage.

I chose Jesus.

I chose him completely and irreversibly, surrendering everything I had been to become something entirely new.

Then the light began to fade and I felt myself falling backward toward the broken body that waited below, returning to a world that would never look the same again.

I woke in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and something metallic that I would later recognize as my own blood being cleaned from wounds I could not yet feel.

The ceiling above me was white and unfamiliar.

Fluorescent lights buzzing softly in fixtures that seemed very far away from my face.

And for a moment, I could not remember where I was or how I had come to be, lying in this strange bed with tubes connected to my arms and machines beeping steadily beside me.

Then the memories crashed back like a wave, breaking against rocks.

The accident and the spinning darkness and the light and the face of Jesus speaking my name with love that still echoed through every cell of my body.

I was alive.

I was in a hospital in El Salvador, thousands of miles from home.

And everything I had ever believed about God and religion, and my place in the universe had been completely and permanently transformed by an encounter that no amount of Islamic scholarship could explain or deny.

The pain arrived next, flooding through my body as the shock began wearing off and my nervous system started reporting the damage that the accident had inflicted on my physical form.

My left arm was broken in two places, immobilized in a cast that ran from my wrist to above my elbow.

Several ribs on my right side were cracked, making every breath a careful negotiation between the need for oxygen and the stabbing pain that accompanied each expansion of my lungs.

My face was cut in multiple places from shattered glass, stitches pulling at my skin when I tried to move my mouth or change my expression.

But none of this physical suffering could diminish the overwhelming joy that pulsed through me alongside the pain.

a certainty that I had encountered the living God and that nothing would ever be the same again.

I had met Jesus.

I had chosen to follow him.

And I knew with absolute conviction that this choice would cost me everything I had ever valued in my previous life.

Abdullah appeared at my bedside within minutes of my waking.

his face a mixture of relief and concern as he assessed my condition and began explaining what had happened since the accident.

The driver of our vehicle had been killed instantly, he told me, his voice heavy with grief for a man who had served our family faithfully for many years.

One of our security guards was in critical condition in another part of the hospital while the other had escaped with minor injuries and was coordinating with local authorities and our embassy contacts.

Abdullah himself had suffered a concussion and lacerations but had refused extended medical treatment so that he could remain at my side and ensure my safety in this foreign hospital where he trusted no one.

He asked how I was feeling, whether I needed anything, whether I wanted him to contact my father immediately or wait until we had more complete information about my prognosis and recovery timeline.

I looked at Abdullah, this man who had served my family for two decades with loyalty that never wavered and obedience that never questioned.

And I knew that what I was about to say would change his perception of me forever.

I told him that something had happened during the accident, something that I needed to share with him before he contacted anyone in Saudi Arabia.

I told him that I had died or nearly died.

And that during those moments between life and death, I had encountered someone who had changed everything I believed about God and religion and my own identity.

I told him that I had met Jesus Christ face to face, that he had spoken to me with love I had never experienced from Allah despite a lifetime of devoted worship, and that I had chosen to follow him as my Lord and Savior.

I told him that I was no longer a Muslim, that I could not return to Saudi Arabia and pretend that this encounter had not happened, and that I would be staying in El Salvador to begin a new life as a follower of Jesus.

The expression on Abdullah’s face shifted through stages of confusion, disbelief, horror, and finally a kind of desperate denial as he processed words that must have sounded like madness from the daughter of one of the most respected Islamic scholars in the world.

He asked me if I was confused from the medication, if the head trauma had affected my thinking, if I understood what I was saying and the consequences that such words would bring upon myself and my family.

He reminded me that I was Princess Fatima of the house of al-Shik, descendant of Muhammad ibn Abd al-wahab himself, daughter of a man whose entire life was dedicated to defending Islam against the corruption of Christianity and Western influence.

He pleaded with me to rest, to recover, to allow time for my mind to clear before making statements that could never be taken back once they reached my father’s ears.

He promised to keep my words secret if I would only reconsider, only wait, only give myself time to return to the faith that had defined our family for 300 years.

I listened to Abdullah’s pleas with compassion for his distress, but without any wavering in the certainty that filled my heart.

I understood his fear because I had spent my entire life in the same religious prison that now held him captive, bound by chains of tradition and family expectation that seemed unbreakable until Jesus himself had broken them in a moment of supernatural encounter.

I told Abdullah gently but firmly that I was not confused, that the medication had not affected my judgment, that I knew exactly what I was saying and exactly what it would cost me.

I told him that Jesus had warned me I would suffer for his name, but had promised to be with me through whatever persecution awaited.

I told him that I loved my family and would always love them, but that I could not deny what I had seen and heard and experienced during those moments when my spirit had left my body and encountered the living God.

I told him to contact my father and tell him the truth because I would not begin my new life in Christ by asking others to lie on my behalf.

Abdullah left my hospital room with tears streaming down his weathered face.

A man whose world had just collapsed around him as completely as mine had been rebuilt from the foundations upward.

I knew that within hours my father would receive news that would devastate him more completely than if Abdullah had simply reported my death in the accident.

For Shik Hassan bin Omar al-Shik, my conversion to Christianity was worse than death because death would have preserved his honor while apostasy destroyed it utterly and permanently.

I was declaring that 300 years of his family’s religious authority was built on lies.

That the Islam he had dedicated his life to defending was insufficient to save anyone.

That Jesus Christ, whom Muslims considered merely a prophet, was actually the son of God worthy of worship and complete surrender.

I was betraying everything my father had ever taught me, everything he had ever believed, everything he had ever been.

And I was doing it publicly through an emissary who would have no choice but to report exactly what I had said.

The hours that followed my declaration were filled with a strange peace that transcended my physical pain and my awareness of the storm that was certainly gathering thousands of miles away in Riyad.

Hospital staff came and went, checking my vital signs and adjusting medications and asking questions in Spanish that I answered as best I could with my limited vocabulary.

I prayed constantly, but my prayers were different now, directed not toward an impersonal Allah who demanded perfect submission, but toward Jesus who had looked into my eyes with perfect love and called me by name.

I did not know what would happen next.

Did not know how my father would respond.

Did not know whether I would be allowed to remain in El Salvador or would be forcibly returned to Saudi Arabia to face whatever punishment awaited apostates in my family’s religious worldview.

I only knew that I belonged to Jesus now and that whatever came next was part of the plan he had revealed when he told me I would suffer for his name.

The response from Saudi Arabia came faster than I had anticipated, arriving not as a phone call or video message, but as a physical presence that walked into my hospital room less than 12 hours after Abdullah had sent his devastating report.

Four men I had never seen before entered without knocking, their faces hard and expressionless.

Their suits expensive, but their bearing unmistakably military despite the civilian clothing they wore.

They spoke briefly with Abdullah in Arabic, confirming details I could not hear from my bed before approaching me with a document they said I needed to sign, acknowledging my intention to remain in El Salvador and renounce my Saudi citizenship.

I realized immediately that something was wrong, that this was not standard diplomatic procedure, that my father would never have sent strangers to handle a family matter of such magnitude.

I refused to sign anything until I understood what was happening.

And that was when the pretense of official business fell away and the true nature of my father’s response was revealed.

They told me that I was under arrest by order of Sheikh Hassan bin Omar al-Shik acting through channels of influence that my family had cultivated across decades of religious and political alliance building.

They told me that I would be transported to a secure facility where I would have time to reconsider my apostasy and return to Islam before any permanent decisions were made about my future.

They told me that my father was offering me mercy by not demanding my immediate return to Saudi Arabia, where the penalty for apostasy was death, but that this mercy was conditional upon my cooperation with the arrangements that had been made for my correction and rehabilitation.

They told me that I should thank Allah for a father who loved me enough to save me from the eternal hellfire that awaited anyone who abandoned Islam for the false religion of Christianity.

I looked at these men who spoke of mercy while their eyes promised violence.

And I knew that I was about to enter a darkness far deeper than anything I had experienced in the accident that had brought me to Jesus.

They removed me from the hospital before dawn the following morning, wheeling me through service corridors and loading docks designed for deliveries rather than patient transport, avoiding security cameras and staff members who might ask questions about a bandaged woman being taken from her room by men who showed no identification or medical credentials.

My injuries screamed with every movement as they transferred me from the wheelchair to a waiting van with blackened windows that revealed nothing of the world outside.

My broken arm jostled despite their attempts to handle me carefully enough to avoid leaving marks that might complicate whatever story they planned to tell about my disappearance.

Abdullah was not present during my removal and I never learned whether he had been sent back to Saudi Arabia or simply excluded from this phase of my father’s plan to make his apostate daughter vanish from the world without the scandal of a public trial or execution.

I prayed silently as the van began moving through the pre-dawn streets of San Salvador, asking Jesus to give me strength for whatever awaited me at the end of this journey into darkness.

The drive lasted several hours, taking us out of the capital city and into rural areas where paved roads gave way to rougher surfaces that sent jolts of pain through my broken ribs with every pothole and uneven patch of ground.

I caught glimpses through the front windshield of volcanic mountains and agricultural fields, coffee plantations, and small villages where people were beginning their daily routines, unaware that a Saudi princess was passing through their countryside on her way to a fight that defied imagination.

The men who transported me spoke occasionally in Spanish mixed with Arabic.

Their conversations too quiet and fragmented for me to understand, but their tone suggested professional detachment rather than personal hostility.

They were doing a job following orders from people who paid well for discretion and efficiency.

And my suffering was simply a detail to be managed rather than a moral concern requiring their attention.

I was cargo now, not a princess, and my value lay only in delivering me intact to whatever destination my father had arranged.

We arrived at Seco T as the morning sun was climbing toward its midday position, the massive prison complex rising from the Salvadoran landscape like a monument to human capacity for containing and controlling other humans.

I had heard of this place during my research about El Salvador, the Centro de Confinato del Terrorismo that President Ble had built to house 40,000 of the most dangerous gang members in the country.

A facility designed to be inescapable and invisible to the outside world once its gates closed behind you.

The structure was enormous, sprawling across the terrain in geometric patterns of concrete and steel.

watchtowwers positioned at regular intervals with armed guards scanning the perimeter for any sign of disturbance or escape attempt.

High walls topped with razor wire surrounded everything, creating barriers within barriers that made the very idea of freedom seem like a fantasy from another universe.

I had expected to be taken to a detention center or perhaps a private facility where my father’s influence could operate without government oversight.

But this was something far worse than anything I had imagined during those hours of transit.

The processing that followed stripped away the final remnants of my identity as Princess Fatima of the House of Al-Shik, replacing everything I had been with a number and a fabricated criminal history that justified my presence in this facility designed for terrorists and murderers.

They photographed me from multiple angles, recorded my fingerprints digitally, documented every injury from the accident as if cataloging the condition of merchandise received in damaged packaging.

They took my hospital gown and gave me the white uniform that all secot prisoners wore.

Shapeless garments that erased any distinction between the daughter of religious royalty and the gang members whose violence had terrorized Salvadoran communities for decades.

They shaved my head, running electric clippers across my scalp until my long black hair fell to the floor in piles that would be swept away and discarded like garbage.

They took my jewelry, my watch, my everything, leaving me with nothing except the faith that Jesus had placed in my heart during those moments between life and death when he had called me by name and promised never to leave me.

Guards led me through corridor after corridor of the massive facility, past sections where thousands of men in identical white uniforms sat in cells so overcrowded that movement seemed impossible.

their shaved heads and tattooed bodies creating a sea of humanity that had been removed from society and stored here like toxic waste awaiting permanent disposal.

The men stared as I passed.

A woman walking through spaces designed exclusively for male prisoners, their eyes registering surprise and confusion at my presence in a facility that officially housed no female inmates whatsoever.

The guards ignored their reactions, moving me quickly through the mail sections toward a destination that clearly lay beyond the public areas of the prison, deeper into the complex where official records apparently did not reach.

I understood then that I was being taken somewhere that did not officially exist, a section of SEO that my father’s money and influence had accessed through channels of corruption that operated beneath the surface of El Salvador’s criminal justice system.

The female wing was hidden behind multiple security checkpoints that required special codes and authorization levels beyond what ordinary guards possessed.

a prison within a prison where secrets could be kept from international observers and human rights organizations that might otherwise ask uncomfortable questions.

The first thing I noticed upon entering this hidden section was the smell, a concentration of human bodies and despair that seemed to saturate the very concrete of the walls and floors.

The second thing I noticed was the women themselves, perhaps 50 or 60 of them housed in cells that lined a long corridor illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that never turned off.

They watched me arrive with eyes that held nothing I recognized as human warmth or curiosity, only the cold assessment of predators, evaluating new prey that had stumbled into their territory.

These were not gang members or drug traffickers like the male population that filled the public sections of Seoti.

These were something far more dangerous.

Women whose crimes had been so terrible that no ordinary prison could safely contain them and no public record could acknowledge their existence.

I learned their stories gradually over the following days and weeks, piecing together fragments of information from guards who occasionally spoke within my hearing and from the women themselves during rare moments when communication was possible.

Maria had killed 17 people across Guatemala and Honduras before her capture, working as an assassin for cartels who paid premium prices for a female killer who could access targets that male cicarios could not approach.

Espiransa had poisoned three husbands and 11 extended family members over a period of 15 years, collecting inheritance money and insurance payments until investigators finally connected the pattern of deaths surrounding her seemingly ordinary life.

Isabella had led a cult in rural Mexico that practiced human sacrifice, personally killing at least 23 victims in rituals that her followers believed would grant them supernatural powers.

Rosa had operated a kidnapping ring that targeted children from wealthy families.

And when ransoms were not paid quickly enough, she had disposed of the evidence with a brutality that prosecutors could barely describe during her secret trial.

These were my new neighbors, my new community.

The congregation that Jesus had apparently chosen for my ministry when he told me during our encounter that he would use me to convert many souls.

The cell they placed me in measured perhaps 3 m by 3 m containing a concrete platform that served as a bed, a metal toilet with no seat or privacy screen and nothing else.

The walls were covered with scratches and markings from previous occupants whose fates I could only imagine.

Messages in Spanish that spoke of suffering and despair and occasionally of revenge against enemies who would never read these desperate communications.

A small window near the ceiling admitted a rectangle of light during daytime hours.

My only connection to the outside world beyond these walls that seemed designed to crush hope as thoroughly as they contained physical bodies.

I lay on the concrete platform that first night, my broken arm throbbing, my cracked ribs making every breath a conscious decision, my shaved head cold against the hard surface that offered no comfort or cushioning.

I had been a princess that morning in a hospital room where nurses attended my injuries with professional care.

Now I was prisoner number 847 in a section of seot that did not exist, surrounded by serial killers who had between them ended more lives than I could count.

But even in that darkness, even lying broken and alone in a concrete cell surrounded by murderers whose crimes defied comprehension, I felt the presence that Jesus had promised would never leave me.

I whispered prayers into the stale air of my cell, thanking him for loving me enough to die for my sins, asking him for strength to endure whatever waited ahead.

Trusting that his promise to use me for the conversion of many souls, included these women whose humanity seemed buried beneath layers of violence and trauma that no ordinary intervention could penetrate.

I did not know how I would communicate with women who spoke Spanish while I struggled with basic phrases.

I did not know how I would survive among predators who had killed without remorse and would certainly view my weakness as invitation for exploitation.

I did not know anything except that Jesus had brought me here for purposes that transcended my understanding and that my job was simply to trust him one moment at a time until those purposes became clear.

The serial killers of Secot did not know it yet, but their lives were about to be invaded by the same supernatural love that had invaded mine on a roadside in San Salvador, where death had become the doorway to eternal life.

The first weeks in Seot’s hidden female wing were a brutal education in survival that tested every limit of my physical endurance and spiritual faith.

My injuries from the accident healed slowly without proper medical care.

The broken arm setting imperfectly in its cast while my ribs achd with every breath and movement.

Food arrived twice daily through a slot in my cell door.

portions so small and unappetizing that my stomach cramped constantly with hunger that never fully subsided no matter how carefully I rationed the stale bread and watery beans that constituted every meal.

Sleep came in fragments interrupted by screaming from other cells.

guards making rounds with heavy boots that echoed through the corridor at unpredictable hours and nightmares that replayed the accident and my father’s betrayal in endless variations that left me gasping awake in the darkness.

The other prisoners watched me constantly during the brief periods when we were allowed into the common area.

their eyes tracking my movements with predatory attention that made me feel like wounded prey surrounded by hungry wolves waiting for the right moment to strike.

The language barrier seemed insurmountable during those early weeks.

My limited Spanish insufficient for meaningful communication with women whose vocabularies had been shaped by violence and survival rather than business negotiations and polite conversation.

I learned quickly which phrases mattered most.

Words for food and water and toilet and danger that allowed me to navigate basic interactions without triggering the explosive tempers that could transform ordinary moments into brutal confrontations.

I learned to read body language that transcended spoken words.

Recognizing the subtle shifts in posture and expression that warned of impending violence or signal temporary safety in an environment where neither state was ever permanent.

I learned to make myself small and unobtrusive, occupying minimal space in the common area and avoiding eye contact with the dominant prisoners whose authority over this hidden wing had been established through methods I did not want to witness or imagine.

I was learning to survive.

But survival alone was not why Jesus had brought me to this place.

The breakthrough came through Maria, the assassin who had killed 17 people and whose cell was located directly across from mine in the narrow corridor that housed the most dangerous women in the secret section of Seekot.

I had noticed her watching me differently than the other prisoners.

her gaze containing something beyond predatory assessment, a curiosity that seemed almost intellectual in its intensity.

She had observed me whispering prayers in my cell during the night hours when most prisoners slept, had seen my lips moving in conversation with someone invisible, had noticed that my eyes held something different from the despair and rage that filled the eyes of every other woman in this underground prison.

One evening during our brief common area time, she approached me directly while other prisoners watched with interest that suggested such direct contact with new inmates usually ended badly for the newcomer.

She asked in heavily accented English what I was doing when I spoke to the air in my cell who I was talking to when no one else was there.

I told Maria about Jesus, struggling to find simple English words that she could understand with her limited vocabulary, describing the accident and the light and the face of the one who had called me by name and promised to use my suffering for purposes I was only beginning to comprehend.

I told her that I had been a Muslim princess from Saudi Arabia, daughter of one of the most powerful religious leaders in the Islamic world until Jesus himself had appeared to me and changed everything I believed about God and salvation and the meaning of human existence.

I told her that I talked to Jesus because he was alive and present with me even in this prison.

that he heard my prayers and answered them with peace that transcended my circumstances.

That he had sent me here not as punishment but as mission to share his love with women the world had abandoned as beyond redemption.

Maria listened without interrupting her assassin’s eyes studying my face for signs of deception or manipulation, finding instead the unmistakable sincerity of someone who believed completely in the impossible story she was telling.

Maria returned the following day with more questions.

And the day after that, with more questions, still her curiosity gradually transforming into something that looked almost like hunger for the hope I was describing.

She told me fragments of her own story between questions.

The poverty that had driven her to cartel work as a teenager.

The first killing that had shattered something inside her that she thought could never be repaired.

The 17 deaths that followed as she became increasingly valuable to employers who paid premium prices for a woman who could kill without hesitation or remorse.

She told me that she had stopped feeling anything years ago, that her heart had become stone, that she expected to die in this prison without ever experiencing the peace or love or forgiveness that I described with such conviction.

I told her that Jesus specialized in hearts of stone.

That he had promised through his prophet Ezekiel to remove hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh.

That no one was beyond the reach of his transforming love, no matter how many terrible things they had done.

The night Maria surrendered her life to Jesus was a moment I will treasure for all eternity.

watching this professional killer fall to her knees on the concrete floor of the common area and weep like a child as years of suppressed guilt and trauma came flooding out in waves that shook her entire body.

She confessed her 17 murders one by one, speaking names she had never spoken aloud before, acknowledging victims whose faces had haunted her dreams, but whose humanity she had refused to recognize while awake.

She asked Jesus to forgive her with a desperation that came from finally understanding both the magnitude of her sins and the greater magnitude of his sacrifice to pay for them.

She rose from that concrete floor a different woman.

The hardness in her eyes replaced by something soft and wondering.

The predatory tension in her body relaxed into a piece that other prisoners noticed immediately, even if they could not understand its source.

Maria became my first convert in Seot, but she would not be my last.

Word spread through the hidden wing that something strange was happening to Maria.

That the assassin who had killed without remorse was now speaking of forgiveness and love.

And a man named Jesus who had died for her sins.

Some prisoners mocked her transformation, attributing it to psychological breakdown or manipulation by the foreign prisoner, whose presence remained unexplained to most inhabitants of this secret facility.

Others watched with the same curiosity that had initially drawn Maria to my cell, wondering whether whatever had changed the assassin might be available to them as well.

Espiransa the poisoner approached me next.

Then Isabella the cult leader, then Rosa, the kidnapper.

Each woman bringing her burden of guilt and despair to conversations that gradually became Bible studies conducted in broken English and fragmentaryary Spanish with occasional translation assistance from Maria, whose vocabulary was expanding rapidly as she devoured every word of scripture I could remember and share.

The underground church in Sikkot grew steadily over the following months.

Women surrendering to Jesus one by one until the count reached 20, then 30, then 50 believers meeting in whispered gatherings during common area time and communicating through tapped messages on cell walls during lockdown hours.

The transformation in individual women began affecting the entire atmosphere of our hidden wing.

The constant tension gradually replaced by something that almost resembled community as former predators became sisters in faith who protected rather than exploited one another.

Guards noticed the change without understanding its cause, reporting to supervisors that the secret female section had become mysteriously peaceful compared to its previous reputation for violence and conflict.

Some officials attributed the calm to effective containment protocols or perhaps to resignation among prisoners who had accepted that no escape from this hidden facility was possible.

None of them suspected that supernatural intervention was responsible, that Jesus himself was moving through this congregation of serial killers and transforming them from the inside out.

The miracles began appearing as our community of believers grew larger and bolder in their faith.

A woman named Carmen, who had suffered from chronic pain since a stabbing years before her imprisonment, woke one morning, completely healed after our prayer circle had interceded for her the previous night.

A guard named Diego, who had treated us with particular cruelty, suddenly experienced a dream that left him weeping and confused.

asking me through the cell door what it meant when a man in white clothing told you to stop fighting against love.

Three women who had been bitter enemies before their conversions were now inseparable friends.

Their reconciliation visible testimony to a power that could overcome decades of violence and hatred.

The spiritual atmosphere in our wing became so tangibly different that even non-believing prisoners began asking questions, wondering what was producing changes that defied every expectation about how criminals behaved in maximum security detention.

The night we counted 100 believers was a celebration that took place entirely in whispers and hand signals.

A worship service conducted in silence that somehow contained more joy than any loud gathering I had ever attended in my previous life of religious obligation and empty ritual.

100 women who had between them killed hundreds of victims were now followers of Jesus.

Their hearts transformed by the same love that had met me on a roadside in San Salvador and promised to use my suffering for the salvation of many souls.

I looked around at faces that had terrified me when I first arrived.

Maria and Esparansa and Isabella and Rosa and 96 others whose names I now knew as sisters rather than threats.

And I understood that Jesus had fulfilled exactly what he promised during our encounter.

He had used me for the conversion of many.

He had taken the darkness my father intended for my destruction and transformed it into light that was changing lives 100 times over.

The seed that had fallen into the ground and died was bearing fruit beyond anything I could have imagined when guards first led me into this hidden wing.

And I saw only predators and despair.

Now I saw the church of Jesus Christ assembled in the most unlikely place on earth, worshiping the God who specializes in reaching people that everyone else has given up on.

The months following our hund 100th conversion brought changes that extended far beyond the spiritual transformation happening inside our hidden wing of secot.

Guards who had once treated us with indifference or cruelty began behaving differently.

Some avoiding our section entirely while others lingered near ourselves with expressions that suggested internal struggles they could not articulate or resolve.

Diego, the guard who had experienced the dream of the man in white, started leaving extra bread with my meals and asking questions through the door slot about forgiveness and whether God could accept someone who had done terrible things in service of a corrupt system.

I shared the gospel with him in whispered conversations that risked punishment for both of us, explaining that Jesus had died for guards as well as prisoners, for oppressors as well as victims, for anyone who would humble themselves and receive the gift that no amount of good behavior could ever earn.

Other guards noticed Diego’s changed demeanor and began watching our section with curiosity that mixed suspicion with something that looked almost like longing.

Reports of the unusual peace in our wing filtered upward through the prison administration to officials who had no idea that a secret female section even existed within their facility, creating complications for the corrupt network that had accepted Saudi money to make me disappear.

Questions were being asked about why certain guards were assigned to areas not listed on official facility maps, why food supplies exceeded the documented prisoner population, why utility consumption patterns suggested occupancy in sections that blueprints showed as storage or mechanical rooms.

International journalists investigating SECOT’s human rights record were probing inconsistencies that prison officials struggled to explain without revealing secrets that powerful people had paid enormous sums to keep hidden.

The invisible walls protecting our secret wing were developing cracks that no amount of bribery or intimidation could permanently seal.

and I sensed that something significant was shifting in the spiritual atmosphere surrounding our situation.

The external pressure intensified when an American human rights organization announced an investigation into allegations that foreign nationals were being illegally detained in Salvadoran prisons without proper documentation or legal process.

The report mentioned rumors of a Saudi woman imprisoned in COT under circumstances that violated international law and diplomatic protocols.

Information that had apparently leaked through channels I never identified, but that I suspected involved Diego or other guards whose consciences had been awakened by encounters with our transformed community.

The Saudi embassy in San Salvador issued denials that any Saudi citizen was being held in Salvadoran custody, while simultaneously my father’s representatives were apparently scrambling to relocate me before investigators could confirm the rumors that threatened to expose corruption reaching into both governments.

I knew none of this while it was happening, learning the details only later from people who pieced together the story after my release.

All I knew at the time was that something was changing.

That guards were nervous in ways they had not been before and that the atmosphere of our hidden wing was charged with anticipation of developments I could not predict.

The supernatural signs continued multiplying as external pressure mounted against the systems that had imprisoned me.

Women reported dreams of Jesus visiting their cells and speaking words of comfort that they remembered with perfect clarity.

Upon waking, a prisoner named Valentina, who had been mute since childhood trauma, suddenly began speaking during one of our prayer gatherings, her voice emerging for the first time in 30 years to praise the God who had healed not just her vocal cords, but the psychological wounds that had silenced her.

Lights flickered throughout our wing during worship times.

Electrical patterns that technicians could not explain and that guards attributed to faulty wiring rather than acknowledge the supernatural activity they were witnessing.

Two prisoners who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer before their imprisonment reported that their symptoms had completely disappeared.

healings that prison medical staff documented with confusion but could not attribute to any treatment since our wing received almost no health care services.

The power of Jesus was manifesting visibly among us confirming to believers and witnesses alike that something beyond human explanation was operating in this hidden corner of Seikkot.

The morning of my release began like any other morning with guards banging on cell doors for the count that started every day and the familiar routine of meal distribution through door slots that had defined my existence for what I later calculated was 11 months of imprisonment.

I was praying in my cell when unusual footsteps approached.

multiple people walking with purpose that differed from the casual patrol patterns I had learned to recognize during my time in this facility.

The door opened to reveal not the regular guards but men in suits who looked uncomfortable in the prison environment, their expensive clothing and nervous expressions, suggesting officials from outside the normal chain of command who had come for purposes that clearly unsettled them.

They told me to gather my belongings, a laughable instruction since I possessed nothing except the prison uniform I was wearing.

And they escorted me from my cell without explanation, while prisoners throughout the wing watched through their door windows with confusion and concern about what was happening to the woman who had led them to Jesus.

The processing for my release took place in administrative offices I had never seen.

paperwork signed by officials whose titles I did not recognize and whose faces displayed the particular tension of people completing tasks they did not fully understand but had been ordered to perform by authorities they could not question.

They gave me civilian clothing that fit poorly, a simple dress and sandals that replaced the white prison uniform I had worn for nearly a year.

They gave me documents identifying me by a name I had never heard before.

Papers that would allow me to travel without immediately attracting the attention that my real identity as a daughter of the house of Al-Shik would certainly generate.

They told me I was being deported, that my presence in El Salvador had become problematic for reasons they did not elaborate, and that I would be placed on a flight departing that afternoon for a destination that would be revealed when I arrived at the airport.

No one apologized for my wrongful imprisonment or acknowledged that I had been held in a secret facility that did not officially exist.

They simply processed me out as efficiently as they had processed me in.

A bureaucratic solution to a problem that had grown too complicated to sustain.

I was permitted a brief farewell with the community I was leaving behind.

A mercy that I suspected came from Diego, who had apparently risen in responsibility during the months of my imprisonment, and who now possessed enough authority to bend rules on behalf of the woman who had led him to faith.

The women gathered in the common area as I walked through one final time.

100 faces that had become more precious to me than any congregation I had ever known in my previous life of religious privilege and empty ritual.

Maria embraced me with strength that her thin frame should not have possessed, weeping and thanking me for showing her that forgiveness was possible even for someone with 17 deaths on her conscience.

Espiranza pressed into my hand a small cross she had fashioned from threads pulled from her uniform.

A gift that represented hours of secret labor and that I would treasure for the rest of my life.

Isabella and Rosa and Valentina and Carmen and dozens of others whose names I had learned and whose stories I had witnessed, transformed, gathered around me in a circle that felt like the holiest sanctuary I had ever entered.

I commissioned them to continue the work that Jesus had started through our community to keep meeting and praying and worshiping and sharing the gospel with every new prisoner who entered our wing.

I told them that I did not know what awaited me outside these walls, but that I would pray for them every single day for the rest of my life.

Carrying their faces in my heart across whatever distance would soon separate us.

I told them that Jesus had not brought them to faith only to abandon them in this prison.

That he would continue working among them through the leaders who had emerged during our months together.

that the church we had built on this foundation would stand even if I was no longer present to guide it.

I wept as I spoke, knowing that I might never see these women again in this life, trusting that we would be reunited in eternity where no prison walls could ever separate the family that God had created in the most unlikely place on earth.

Then guards led me away and the doors closed behind me and I walked toward a freedom that felt incomplete because I was leaving behind 100 sisters whose fates remained uncertain.

The journey from Sakot to the airport passed in a blur of vehicles and checkpoints and official scrutiny that I barely registered through the fog of emotion clouding my awareness.

I was placed on a commercial flight to Houston, Texas, seated in economy class among ordinary travelers who had no idea that the woman beside them had just been released from a secret prison where she had converted 100 serial killers to Christianity.

The flight lasted several hours.

Time I spent praying for the women I had left behind and wondering what awaited me in a country where I knew no one and possessed nothing except false documents and the faith that had sustained me through everything.

Immigration officials at George Bush Intercontinental Airport processed my paperwork with minimal questions, apparently finding nothing unusual about the documents that identified me as a refugee from religious persecution in an unspecified country seeking asylum in the United States.

I walked through the arrivals gate and into a terminal filled with strangers.

a free woman for the first time in nearly a year.

Standing alone in a foreign country with no money, no contacts, and no plan for what came next.

Representatives from a Christian organization that assists persecuted believers found me before I had finished wondering how I would survive my first night in America.

They had been contacted through networks I never fully understood.

Informed that a Saudi woman who had been imprisoned for her faith would be arriving on a specific flight and would need immediate assistance.

They welcomed me with embraces and tears and promises of support that overwhelmed my exhausted emotions.

They took me to a safe house where other refugees from religious persecution were being sheltered.

People from Iran and Pakistan and Afghanistan and other countries where following Jesus meant risking everything.

They provided food and clothing and medical care for injuries that had never properly healed during my imprisonment.

They helped me begin the process of building a new life in a country where I could worship Jesus openly without fear of arrest or execution.

They became my new family, replacing the biological family that had disowned me and the prison family that circumstances had forced me to abandon.

The years since my release have been filled with healing and ministry and the gradual construction of a life I never imagined during my childhood in the palaces of Saudi Arabia.

I live now in a city I will not name.

Worshippping in a church that has become my spiritual home.

working with organizations that support persecuted believers around the world.

I share my testimony whenever opportunities arise, speaking in churches and conferences and media platforms about the Jesus who met me in death and followed me into the darkest prison on earth.

I have written this account so that my story can reach people I will never meet in person.

souls who might be trapped in their own prisons of circumstance or guilt or despair and who need to know that no walls can contain the love of Jesus Christ.

I do not know what happened to the 100 women I left behind in Secot.

I cannot return to El Salvador to visit them.

I cannot contact them through any channel that would not endanger their safety and mine.

But I pray for them every single day, calling each name before the throne of grace, trusting that Jesus is continuing the work he began through our community in that hidden wing.

Reports reach me occasionally through underground networks that suggest revival continues spreading through Seot and beyond.

Whispers of transformed prisoners and confused guards and supernatural signs that officials cannot explain or suppress.

I have heard that Diego left his position as a guard and is now training for ministry.

That Maria has become a leader among the believing women.

That the church we planted continues growing despite every obstacle that prison systems and corrupt officials can place in its path.

I have also heard fragments of news from Saudi Arabia that fill me with hope for the family that condemned me to suffering.

My mother has reportedly been asking questions about Jesus to servants who secretly follow him.

My brother Abdul Rahman has experienced dreams that disturb his sleep and challenge his certainty about the Islam he was raised to defend.

My sister Salma has been seen reading materials that my sources believe are Christian literature smuggled into the kingdom through the same networks that once brought me my first Bible.

Even my father Shik Hassan bin Omar al- Shik has been observed standing alone in the gardens of our family compound speaking to someone invisible.

His lips moving in what witnesses believe might be prayer or perhaps argument with a god he spent his entire life denying.

If you are hearing or reading my testimony, I want you to know that the same Jesus who met me on a roadside in El Salvador, who sustained me through imprisonment among serial killers, who transformed 100 murderers into worshippers.

That same Jesus is reaching out to you right now in this very moment.

He is not limited by your background or your religion or the sins you have committed or the circumstances that seem impossible to escape.

He is not intimidated by the prisons that confine you.

Whether those prisons are made of concrete and steel or constructed from shame and fear and addiction and hopelessness that feel just as inescapable as any physical cell.

He is pursuing you with the same relentless love that pursued me through death itself and refused to let me go even when I did not know his name or recognize his voice.

He is offering you the same gift of eternal life that he offered me.

Forgiveness that cannot be earned but only received.

Transformation that no human effort can achieve but that divine power accomplishes in willing hearts.

No accident is too tragic, no prison too dark, no past too bloody for his grace to reach and redeem.

I am living proof.

A Saudi princess who lost everything and gained infinitely more.

A secoty prisoner who found freedom that transcends physical liberation.

A woman who was hidden to die but was found by the one who is himself the resurrection and the life.

To Jesus Christ, my savior, my deliverer, my king.

All glory and all honor and all praise forever and ever.

Amen.