My name is Kadijah.

I am 24 years old.

And on August 22nd, 2016, my father sold me as a wife to my own uncle.

What happened next defied everything I believed about Allah, about family, about my destiny.

This is how Jesus Christ found me in the heart of Saudi Arabia.

I was born the third daughter to Prince Abdullah, a minor member of the Saudi royal family.

Our palace wasn’t the grandest in Riyad, but it was my entire world, surrounded by high walls that I thought were there to protect me.

I realized now they were my prison bars, beautifully decorated in marble and gold.

From the moment I could walk, my life revolved around Allah.

I was taught that my devotion to Islam wasn’t just expected.

It was my very purpose for existing.

At six years old, I was waking before dawn for fudger prayer.

My small hands pressed to the cold marble floor as I recited verses I had memorized but didn’t yet understand.

By the time I turned 14, I had memorized the entire Quran, a feat my father boasted about to his brothers at every family gathering.

My education came from private Islamic tutors who entered our compound under the watchful eye of male guards.

Mathematics, literature, science, all filtered through the lens of Islamic teaching.

I learned that the Western world was corrupt, that their women were lost and immoral, that our way was the only path to paradise.

I believed every word because questioning wasn’t just discouraged.

It was unthinkable.

The compound walls stretched 20 ft high, topped with security cameras and razor wire that my father explained kept bad people out.

I never left without a male guardian.

Usually my younger brother Fad when he turned 16 or one of my uncles.

Even then, our destinations were limited to family compounds, Islamic centers, or carefully selected shops where the owners knew our family.

The outside world existed only in whispered conversations between the housemmaids and in my imagination.

I spent hours in our private mosque, a beautiful room with handpainted calligraphy covering every surface.

The word spoke of Allah’s mercy, his guidance, his perfect plan for every believer.

I found genuine peace there during my teenage years, especially during the quiet moments after evening prayer when the call to worship echoed across the city.

I loved Allah with a pure heart, believing that submission to his will was the highest form of love.

But something began stirring in my heart when I turned 16.

It started small, like a pebble in my shoe that I couldn’t ignore.

During family dinners, I watched my mother and aunt serve the men first, then eat in silence unless spoken to.

I observed how my male cousins could travel, study abroad, choose their careers, while my female cousins and I were prepared only for marriage and motherhood.

When I asked my mother why things were this way, she would stroke my hair and say, “This is Allah’s design, hhibi.

He knows what is best for his daughters.

” The questions multiplied like cracks in a dam.

Why did my prayers feel different from my brother’s prayers? Why did I feel this strange restlessness during worship? As if my spirit was reaching for something just beyond my grasp.

Why did the stories of paradise describe rewards for men but only speak of women as servants and companions? I pushed these thoughts down, convinced they were whispers from Shayan trying to lead lead me astray.

My family had been planning my future since my birth.

Marriage was not a matter of if, but when and to whom.

I understood this was my destiny, my completion.

As a Muslim woman, my mother taught me how to manage a household, how to please a husband, how to raise children who would honor Allah and family.

She spoke of marriage as a sacred duty, telling me that a woman’s faith was only half complete until she fulfilled her role as a wife.

I tried to embrace this teaching with the same devotion I brought to my prayers.

During quiet afternoon hours, I would practice the domest domestic skills my future husband would expect.

I learned to prepare elaborate meals, to organize household staff, to speak softly and defer to male authority.

But even as I perfected these skills, that restless feeling in my chest grew stronger.

The housemaids were my only window into a different world.

Maria, our Filipino maid, had worked for our family since I was 10.

She was quiet and respectful, but I caught glimpses of a different kind of strength in her eyes.

Sometimes when we were alone, she would hum melodies I didn’t recognize.

Songs that seemed to carry a joy that was foreign to me.

When I asked her about her faith once, she smiled sadly and said she prayed to someone who loved all people equally.

I dismissed her words as ignorant superstition, but they lodged themselves somewhere deep in my memory.

As I approached my 18th birthday, the talk of marriage became more frequent and specific.

Potential suitors were discussed in family meetings I wasn’t allowed to attend.

But I heard fragments of conversation through closed doors.

My father spoke of alliances, of family honor, of the importance of choosing a husband who would maintain our family status and religious standing.

Never once did anyone mentioned my feelings, my dreams, or my choice in the matter.

I spent more time in prayer during and during those months begging Allah to guide my family to choose wisely to give me a husband who would be kind and righteous.

I convinced myself that my growing anxiety was normal that every young woman must feel this uncertainty about her future.

I told myself that Allah’s plan was perfect even when it didn’t feel perfect to my human heart.

I loved Allah with every breath I took.

But something deep inside whispered that love shouldn’t feel like a cage.

I didn’t understand then that this whisper would eventually lead me to a love I never knew existed.

A love that would shatter everything I thought I knew about myself, my purpose, and my God.

The day that changed everything started like any other.

August 22nd, 2016 was a Tuesday, and I had spent the morning in prayer and Quran recitation.

As always, the late afternoon heat shimmerred through the palace windows as our household prepared for the evening meal.

I was helping arrange flowers in the main reception hall when my father’s voice echoed through the corridors, calling for all family members to gather immediately.

Something in his tone made my stomach tighten.

Family meetings were formal affairs in our household, reserved for important announcements or serious matters.

I smoothed my abaya and adjusted my hijab before taking my place on the ornate Persian carpet where the women of the family always sat slightly behind the men but close enough to hear every word.

My father stood at the head of our gathering, his presence commanding the room as it always did.

Behind him hung a massive calligraphy piece, spelling out bismillah in gold, a reminder that all things begin with Allah’s name.

The irony of that moment would haunt me for years to come.

He cleared his throat and looked directly at me.

His dark eyes revealing nothing of the storm he was about to unleash on my life.

I have made a decision that will bring great honor to our family.

He began his voice steady and authoritative.

Kadada will marry her uncle Khalil.

This union will strengthen the bonds between our family branches and ensure her security and future prosperity.

The words hit me like physical blows.

Each syllable driving the air from my lungs.

Uncle Khalil, my father’s older brother, sat nodding approvingly from his position near the window.

His weathered face showing satisfaction at this arrangement.

I felt the world tilt beneath me.

Uncle Khalil was 45 years old, a widowerower with three existing wives and seven children scattered between them.

I had known him my entire life as a stern, unforgiving man who ruled his household with an iron fist.

His wives never spoke unless directly addressed, their eyes always downcast in his presence, their movements careful and measured as if walking through a minefield.

The family erupted in congratulations and praise for my father’s wisdom.

My aunts began discussing wedding preparations with excitement, their voices blending into a cacophony that felt like it was coming from underwater.

My mother reached over and squeezed my hand, whispering mabbrook habibi in my ear.

But I could see worry flickering behind her forced smile.

My father continued speaking, outlining the practical benefits of this arrangement.

Uncle Khalil was wealthy and well-connected.

His business dealings stretched across the Gulf States, and his religious devotion was beyond question.

He needed a young wife to help care for his children and manage his growing household.

the marriage would consolidate family assets and strengthen our position within the extended clan.

Every word he spoke made perfect sense from his perspective, but to me it felt like my death sentence was being read aloud.

Uncle Khalil himself finally spoke.

His voice grally from years of smoking.

He expressed gratitude for this honor and promised to treat me with the respect befitting a daughter of the family.

But his eyes when they looked at me held something that made my skin crawl, a possessive satisfaction that suggested he saw me not as a person but as an acquisition.

I tried to speak to voice some protest or plea for more time, but my throat had closed completely.

The words died before they could form, strangled by years of conditioning that taught me never to question male authority, especially my father’s decisions.

Instead, I sat frozen, feeling like I was watching my own execution from outside my body.

That evening, after the extended family had departed and congratulations had been offered, I gathered my courage and approached my father in his study.

The room smelled of sandalwood incense and leatherbound religious texts, familiar scents that usually brought me comfort.

Now they felt suffocating.

Baba, I began, my voice barely above a whisper.

I need to speak with you about this marriage.

He looked up from his papers, his expression already hardening at my tone.

I forced myself to continue.

Uncle Khalil is so much older and he already has wives and children.

Perhaps there might be someone else, someone closer to my age who could provide the same family benefits.

The explosion that followed shattered any remaining hope I had harbored.

My father’s face darkened with fury as he stood, his voice rising to a roar that echoed through the palace corridors.

How dare I question his judgmenty? Did I think I knew better than him about what was best for our family? Was I so arrogant as to believe my childish preferences mattered more than family honor and stability? His words cut deeper than any physical blow could have.

He reminded me that I was nothing without the family name, that my only value lay in the connections and security a good marriage could provide.

He threatened complete disownment if I continued this rebellion, painting vivid pictures of what happened to unmarried women who brought shame to their families.

I would be cast out with nothing, he declared.

Left to wander the streets like a beggar while decent people turned their faces away in disgust.

The conversation ended with his final crushing pronouncement.

The engagement ceremony would take place on September 5th, just two weeks away.

The wedding was scheduled for November 18th, giving Uncle Khalil’s current household time to prepare for a new wife.

These dates were not negotiable, and any further discussion of the matter would result in immediate punishment.

I stumbled back to my room that night, feeling like my soul had been torn from my body.

Everything I thought I knew about my father’s love, about my place in the family, about my future, lay in ruins around me.

I had been sold like a piece of property.

my feelings and desires as irrelevant as those of livestock being traded in a marketplace.

The next weeks passed in a blur of forced preparations.

Wedding planners arrived daily, measuring me for dresses I would never choose, selecting flowers for a ceremony that felt like my funeral, planning a celebration of what felt like the end of my life.

Uncle Khalil visited regularly, inspecting his future acquisition with the same attention he might give to a new car or house.

His current wives accompanied him on these visits, and I studied their faces for any sign of the contentment my family promised I would find in marriage.

Instead, I saw resignation, exhaustion, and something that looked disturbingly like fear.

They spoke in careful, measured words, always seeking approval before expressing any opinion.

Their personalities seemingly erased by years of submission.

Now ask yourself this question.

Have you ever felt sold by the people who claim to love you most? Have you ever experienced the crushing realization that your life, your dreams, your very identity mean nothing to those who hold power over your destiny? That was my reality as September 5th approached, bringing with it an engagement ceremony that would seal my fate and begin the countdown to a marriage that felt like a death sentence.

The palace that had been my golden cage was about to become Uncle Khalil’s property, and I would be transferred along with it like any other family asset.

The little girl who had once loved Allah with pure devotion was about to discover what it meant to feel truly abandoned by everyone she had ever trusted.

The engagement ceremony came and went like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

September 5th, 2016 marked the day I officially became Uncle Khalil’s property.

Though the actual transfer wouldn’t be complete until our wedding, the gold jewelry he placed on my wrists felt like shackles, each piece heavier than the last.

The traditional henna patterns painted on my hands looked like prison tattoos, marking me as claimed goods.

October arrived with its cooler weather, but the chill I felt had nothing to do with the changing seasons.

Wedding dress fittings had begun in earnest.

Each appointment a fresh reminder that my fate was sealed.

The seamstress would pin and adjust the elaborate white gown while I stood like a mannequin.

My mind screaming protests my mouth could never voice.

The dress was beautiful, imported from Paris at enormous expense, but wearing it felt like being fitted for my burial shroud.

The realization hit me with crushing finality during one particularly suffocating fitting session.

There was no escape.

No miraculous intervention was coming.

No family member would suddenly develop a conscience and speak up for my happiness.

I was trapped as completely as any prisoner with a countdown timer marking exactly how many days remained before my execution.

November 18th loomed like a death sentence I couldn’t appeal.

It was during those dark October nights that the thoughts began creeping in.

Thoughts I had never entertained before.

What if I simply didn’t wake up one morning? What if I could find a way to end this nightmare before it truly began? The idea horrified me because suicide was forbidden in Islam.

But the alternative seemed worse than damnation itself.

I would lie in bed staring at the ceiling, calculating different possibilities, weighing eternal punishment against a lifetime of suffering.

One particularly desperate night, I found myself remembering something I had dismissed years earlier.

Maria, our Filipino housemate, had been with our family for over a decade.

She was quiet and respectful, never overstepping boundaries.

But there had been moments when she thought no one was listening, that I caught fragments of her private prayers.

She would whisper to someone she called Jesus in her native language and occasionally in broken Arabic.

I had confronted her about it once when I was 15.

Full of teenage righteousness and Islamic superiority.

You should pray to Allah.

I had told her condescendingly.

Your Jesus cannot help you.

He was just a prophet and Muhammad was the final messenger.

Maria had looked at me with such sadness in her eyes, but her response had stuck with me even though I tried to forget it.

“My Jesus loves women,” she had said softly.

“He treats them like daughters, not property.

” “Those words came back to me now with stunning clarity.

” “My Jesus loves women.

He treats them like daughters, not property.

” The contrast with my current situation was so stark it took my breath away.

Here I was a devoted Muslim woman being sold by her father to her uncle like a commodity while a simple housemmaid spoke of a god who actually loved women as human beings rather than possessions.

The blasphemous thought hit me like lightning.

What if Maria was right? What if there was a God who actually cared about women’s suffering? I had been taught my entire life that questioning Islam was the gravest sin possible, that even entertaining thoughts about other religions would condemn me to hellfire.

But as I lay there in the darkness of my room, facing a future that felt worse than hell itself, I found myself beyond caring about theological consequences.

On October 15th, exactly one month before my wedding, I did something that would have horrified every member of my family.

Alone in my room at 2 in the morning, with the palace silent around me and my heart hammering against my ribs, I whispered words that felt like jumping off a cliff into an unknown abyss.

Jesus.

I breathed into the darkness, the name feeling foreign and dangerous on my tongue.

I don’t know if you’re real.

I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you exist, if you truly love women like Maria says you do, I need you to show me a way out of this nightmare.

The words tumbled out faster than desperation overriding years of religious conditioning.

I’m going to be sold to my uncle in one month, and I would rather die than live as his fourth wife.

If you care about women, if you have any power at all, please help me.

The immediate terror that followed was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

I had just prayed to someone other than Allah.

I had committed sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with God.

According to everything I had been taught, I had just guaranteed my place in hell for eternity.

I curled into a ball under my covers, shaking with fear and waiting for divine punishment to strike me down on the spot.

But instead of punishment, something strange began happening in the days that followed.

3 days after my forbidden prayer, Uncle Khalil fell mysteriously ill with severe stomach problems that left him bedridden and cancelling all his appointments.

The family was concerned but not alarmed, attributing it to stress from business dealings or perhaps something he ate.

Then Maria appeared at my door one afternoon with fresh linens.

But as she worked, she slipped something small and wrapped in cloth under my mattress.

When I unwrapped it later, I found a tiny Arabic Bible no bigger than my palm.

My hands shook as I held it, knowing that possession of such a book could result in imprisonment or worse if discovered by my family.

The most unsettling incident happened during a family meeting about final wedding preparations.

We were gathered in the main hall discussing catering arrangements when suddenly every light in the palace went out.

The backup generator failed to kick in, leaving us in complete darkness except for one room, mine.

My bedroom glowed with soft light, while the rest of the compound remained black for over an hour.

The electricians could find no explanation for the malfunction.

I began reading the small Bible in secret during my scheduled Islamic prayer times, hiding it inside my prayer rug so anyone who checked would see me in the proper position of worship.

What I discovered there shattered every assumption I had about Jesus and Christianity.

This wasn’t the weak defeated prophet I had been taught about.

The Jesus described in these pages spoke to women as equals, defended them against injustice, and treated them with a dignity I had never experienced from the men in my own family.

The stories captivated and terrified me simultaneously.

Jesus speaking directly to the woman at the well despite cultural taboos.

Jesus defending the woman caught in adultery when religious leaders wanted to stone her.

Jesus allowing women to follow him as disciples to support his ministry to be the first witnesses of his resurrection.

Every page revealed a god who saw women as full human beings rather than property to be managed by male relatives.

My prayers began shifting without my conscious decision instead of the formal Arabic supplications I had memorized in childhood.

I found myself whispering simple words in the darkness of my room.

Jesus’s help me became my constant refrain.

Jesus, show me what to do.

Jesus, if you’re real, don’t let me become Uncle Khalil’s wife.

The internal war between my Islamic upbringing and this growing connection to Jesus tore at my soul daily.

Every time I opened the hidden Bible, I felt like I was betraying everything my family had taught me about faith and loyalty.

But every time I thought about my upcoming wedding, I felt like I was betraying something deeper within myself, some core part of my identity that refused to accept this fate.

I lived in constant fear of discovery, knowing that if anyone found the Bible or suspected my secret prayers, the consequences would be swift and brutal.

Yet, I couldn’t stop reading.

couldn’t stop praying to this strange God who seemed to actually listen to women’s cries for help.

For the first time in my life, my prayers felt like conversations rather than recitations, like someone was actually present and caring about my words.

As November approached with terrifying speed, I found myself caught between two worlds, two faiths, two completely different understandings of God and his relationship with women.

One world offered me submission, acceptance, and a lifetime of quiet suffering.

The other whispered promises of freedom, dignity, and love that seemed too good to be true.

I had no idea that my desperate midnight prayer was about to be answered in ways I never could have imagined or that the real miracle was just beginning to unfold.

The final weeks before my wedding passed in a haze of desperate prayer and mounting dread.

November 13th, 2016, 5 days before the ceremony marked the completion of my final dress fitting.

The seamstress declared the gown perfect as she made lastm minute adjustments to the intricate bead work that had taken months to complete.

I stood motionless on the platform, staring at my reflection in the three-way mirror, seeing a stranger in white silk, who looked nothing like the terrified girl trapped inside.

The marriage contract lay waiting on my father’s desk, already signed by uncle Khalil and witnessed by the required male relatives.

Only my signature remained, a formality that would be completed at the ceremony itself.

The weight of that unsigned document felt heavier than the elaborate wedding dress representing the legal transfer of ownership from my father to my uncle.

In five days, I would no longer be Khadijah bent Abdullah, but Khadijah, wife of Khalil, fourth among his possessions.

That evening, as the palace buzzed with final preparations, I retreated to my room with a sense of finality that felt like death approaching.

The caterers had confirmed the menu for 300 guests.

The florist had delivered enough white roses to fill a garden.

The musicians had rehearsed traditional wedding songs that would celebrate my supposed joy.

Everything was perfect except for the bride who would rather die than participate.

I performed my evening prayers mechanically, going through the motions my body had memorized over 18 years of practice.

But when I prostrated on my prayer rug facing Mecca as I had thousands of times before, the B words I whispered were not in Arabic.

Jesus, I breathed against the silk carpet.

If you’re really listening, if you really care about women like Maria says, this is my last chance.

Tomorrow they sign final papers.

In five days, I become Uncle Khalil’s property forever.

Sleep eluded me that night.

I lay staring at the ceiling, counting down hours like a condemned prisoner, awaiting execution.

The palace was quiet except for the distant sound of night guards making their rounds and the gentle hum of air conditioning that kept our gilded cage comfortable.

At exactly 11:47 p.

m.

on November 13th, 2016, my entire world changed with a single phone call.

The shrill ring of my father’s private line cut through the the nighttime silence like a sword.

I heard his muffled voice answering.

Then a long pause, then a sound I had never heard from him before.

A gasp that contained shock, grief, and disbelief all at once.

His heavy footsteps echoed through the corridors as he moved from room to room, waking family members with urgent whispers.

Within minutes, the palace erupted in activity.

Lights blazed in every room as relatives gathered in the main hall, their voices creating a buzz of confusion and concern.

I slipped from my room and positioned myself at the top of the stairs where I could hear without being seen.

My father stood in the center of the gathering, his face pale and his hands trembling as he struggled to find words.

Khalil is dead, he announced, his voice hollow and disbelieving.

He suffered a massive heart attack in his sleep.

His household found him an hour ago.

The doctors could do nothing.

He’s gone.

The words hit the assembled family like physical blows.

Wailing erupted from the women while the men stood in stunned silence, trying to process this unexpected catastrophe.

My own reaction terrified me with its intensity.

Instead of grief or shock, I felt an overwhelming surge of relief so powerful it nearly knocked me to my knees.

Khalil was dead.

The wedding was impossible.

I was free.

The thought blazed through my mind like fire, followed immediately by crushing guilt.

How could I feel joy at the death of a family member? What kind of monster celebrated another person’s demise? But underneath the guilt ran a current of certainty that chilled and amazed me simultaneously.

This was not coincidence.

This was not natural timing.

5 days before our wedding after weeks of my desperate prayers to Jesus.

Uncle Khalil had died suddenly in his sleep.

The correlation was impossible to ignore.

Even though acknowledging it meant accepting that everything I had been taught about faith and prayer was wrong.

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of funeral preparations that completely overshadowed the canceled wedding.

The same flowers ordered for my ceremony were repurposed for Khalil’s burial.

The musicians hired to celebrate our union instead played mourning songs for his passing.

The guests invited to witness my marriage came instead to offer condolences to his three widows and seven orphaned children.

I moved through those days like a sleepwalker, performing my role as the grieving wouldbe bride while internally marveling at what had occurred.

Family members praised my composure during this difficult time, not knowing that my calm came from a deep well of gratitude I could never express.

I attended Khalil’s funeral with appropriate solemnity, standing among his actual wife as they wept for their deceased husband, feeling like an impostor among genuinely grieving women.

The night after the funeral, November 15th, I experienced something that shattered the last remaining foundations of my Islamic worldview.

I had fallen into an exhausted sleep after days of emotional strain when suddenly I found myself somewhere else entirely.

I stood in a place filled with light, so pure and warm it seemed to emanate love itself.

And there approaching me with arms outstretched was a man I somehow recognized despite having never seen him before.

He was not the pale blonde European Jesus from the few Christian images I had glimpsed in forbidden books.

This man had Middle Eastern features, dark skin and eyes that held depths of compassion I had never imagined possible.

When he spoke, his voice carried authority that made the earth itself seemed to listen.

Yet his words were gentle as a mother’s lullabi.

“My daughter,” he said in perfect Arabic, the language flowing from his lips like music.

“You are free,” he stretched out his hands, and I saw wounds there, healed, but still visible marks that told a story of suffering endured for love’s sake.

I paid the price for your freedom, he continued, his nail scarred palms open toward me.

Not just from this marriage, but from every chain that has ever bound your heart.

The love that radiated from him was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Not the conditional love of family that depended on obedience and conformity.

Not the possessive love of men who saw women as property to be protected and controlled.

This was love that saw me as I truly was, knew every secret thought and hidden fear, and chose to cherish rather than condemn.

I felt completely known and completely accepted simultaneously.

I woke from that vision with tears streaming down my face and an unshakable certainty burning in my chest.

Jesus was real.

He had heard my desperate prayers.

He had intervened to save me from a fate worse than death.

And more than that, he loved me with a love that my heart had been searching for my entire life without knowing it.

In that moment, lying in my bed as dawn broke over Riyad, I made a decision that would change everything.

Whatever the consequences, whatever the cost, I chose Jesus.

I chose the God who saw me as a daughter rather than property.

Who heard the cries of women and moved heaven and earth to answer them.

who loved me enough to reveal himself to a desperate Muslim girl who had nowhere else to turn.

So, I’m asking you just as a sister would, have you ever experienced love so powerful it changed everything in an instant? Have you ever felt the presence of someone so pure and good that it made you question everything you thought you knew about life, about faith, about yourself? That was the moment my real life began.

Though I had no idea how much courage it would take to live it.

The girl who had prayed to Allah for 18 years died that night.

In her place, a daughter of the King of Kings was born.

Though it would take time for me to understand the full magnitude of what had occurred.

Uncle Khalil’s death was just the beginning.

The real miracle was the transformation happening in my own heart.

Living as a secret Christian in a Saudi royal household proved more challenging than I had ever imagined.

The euphoria of my supernatural encounter with Jesus gradually gave way to the practical realities of maintaining two completely different identities.

By day, I remained the dutiful Muslim daughter, performing the five day daily prayers with my family, reciting Quranic verses at meals, and participating in Islamic religious discussions.

But by night, I poured my heart out to Jesus in whispered conversations that felt more real than any prayer I had ever offered to Allah.

The small Arabic Bible Maria had given me became my most treasured and dangerous possession.

I developed an elaborate system for hiding it, moving it constantly between different locations in my room.

Sometimes it rested inside a hollowedout copy of Sahi al-Bari on my bookshelf.

Other times, I taped it to the underside of my dresser drawer or concealed it within the lining of my prayer rug.

Reading it required constant vigilance, always listening for approaching footsteps while absorbing words that continue to revolutionize my understanding of God’s character.

The contrast between my public Islamic prayers and my private Christian devotion became increasingly stark.

During family prayer times, I would go through the familiar motions of bowing toward Mecca while internally crying out to Jesus.

The Arabic words of the shahada felt like ashes in my mouth when I spoke of Allah as the only God, knowing that I had experienced the reality of his son’s love.

Yet I dared not skip these obligations without raising suspicion about my spiritual state.

My family interpreted my subdued mood following the canceled wedding as natural grief and disappointment.

They praised my maturity in accepting Allah’s will so gracefully, not knowing that my peace came from a completely different source.

My mother would pat my hand sympathetically and assure me that Allah had better plans for my future, that the right husband would come when the time was perfect.

I would nod and smile while inwardly marveling at how little she understood about what had really happened.

The respite from marriage pressure lasted exactly four months.

In February 2017, my father announced that the morning period for Uncle Khalil had ended and it was time to secure my future with an appropriate husband.

This time he had chosen a distant cousin named Omar who lived in Riyad and worked in the oil ministry.

Omar was 32, unmarried and known for his strict religious observance and conservative views about family life.

The terror that gripped me upon hearing this news felt different from my earlier despair about Uncle Khalil.

This time I knew I had an advocate, someone who had already proven his willingness to intervene on my behalf.

But I also understood that expecting miraculous deliverance from every unwanted marriage proposal was both presumptuous and impractical.

Jesus had given me a temporary escape, but now I needed to find a more permanent solution to my predicament.

During my secret Bible reading sessions, I discovered stories that gave me hope and strategy.

I read about Esther, who used wisdom and timing to save her people from destruction.

I learned about Ruth, who chose loyalty to God’s people over cultural expectations.

Most importantly, I studied the words of Jesus himself about counting the cost of disciplehip and being willing to leave family for the sake of follow of following him.

It was Maria who first mentioned the possibility of escape.

During one of our carefully orchestrated private conversations, she told me about other young women she had known who found ways to leave Saudi Arabia for education or work opportunities abroad.

Some had obtained scholarships to universities in Jordan or Lebanon.

Others had convinced their families that overseas experience would make them better wives and and mothers.

The key, she explained, was presenting the idea in terms that appealed to male family members sense of honor and advantage.

I began researching Islamic studies programs in neighboring countries, particularly those that emphasized women’s religious education and family preparation.

I crafted my approach carefully, knowing I would have only one chance to present this idea convincingly.

The proposal I eventually brought to my father emphasized how additional Islamic education would make me a more valuable wife for any future husband.

How studying under renowned female Islamic scholars would enhance my ability to raise pious children.

And how the international experience would bring prestige to our family name.

My daily relationship with Jesus sustained me through weeks of careful planning and patient waiting for the right moment to present my proposal.

Every morning during what my family believed was my pre-dawn Islamic prayer time.

I would pour out my heart to the one who had already proven his love for me.

These conversations felt nothing like the formal ritualistic prayers of my Islamic upbringing.

Instead, they were intimate exchanges with someone who knew my deepest fears and highest hopes.

Jesus’s guidance came through circumstances that aligned with supernatural precision.

My father received a business opportunity that would require him to travel extensively for several months.

My mother mentioned her concern about my continuing unmarried state and her desire for me to receive the finest possible preparation for future motherhood.

A family friend recommended a prestigious women’s Islamic academy in Ammon, Jordan that specialized in advanced Quranic studies and domestic arts.

When I finally approached my father with my carefully prepared proposal in May 2017, his response exceeded my most optimistic expectations.

He saw the wisdom in postponing my marriage for one year while I completed an intensive program that would make me a more desirable bride.

The academy in Aman had an excellent reputation and its graduates were highly sought after by prominent families throughout the region.

Most importantly, the program would demonstrate our family’s commitment to proper Islamic education and values.

The months between his approval and my departure date created an entirely new kind of tension.

I was simultaneously planning my escape from Saudi Arabia and maintaining the facade of enthusiastic preparation for Islamic studies.

I corresponded with the academy officials, submitted my application materials, and participated in family discussions about my upcoming educational journey.

All while knowing that I intended never to return.

My secret Christian community provided invaluable support during this period.

Maria connected me with other household staff members who shared her faith, creating a tiny underground church that met in storage rooms and service corridors when the family was occupied elsewhere.

These believers taught me Christian songs, shared stories from their own journeys of faith, and prayed fervently for my successful escape from the kingdom.

The internal struggle between love for my family and obedience to Jesus tore at my heart daily.

Despite their controlling behavior and rigid expectations, these were the people who had raised and cared for me.

My mother had sacrificed her own dreams to ensure my comfort and education.

My father, however, misguided his methods, genuinely believed he was protecting my future welfare.

The thought of deceiving them and potentially never seeing them again brought waves of guilt and grief.

Yet every time I wavered in my resolve, I would remember the vision of Jesus showing me his nailscarred hands and declaring my freedom.

I would recall the supernatural deliverance from marriage to Uncle Khalil and the peace that had filled my heart since accepting Christ as my savior.

The choice between earthly family approval and eternal spiritual freedom became clearer with each passing day, though no less painful.

As my departure date approached, I spent increasing amounts of time in prayer, seeking Jesus’s guidance for the practical details of my escape and the emotional strength to leave everything familiar behind.

I was about to trust my entire future to a god I had known for less than a year, betting everything on the reality of a love I had experienced but could not prove to anyone else.

The girl uh who had once found identity and security and family approval and Islamic tradition was preparing to step into a completely unknown future.

Armed with nothing but faith in a savior who had already moved heaven and earth to set her free.

June 15th, 2017 arrived with the kind of blazing heat that makes Riyad feel like the surface of the sun.

As I sat in the backseat of our family car heading to King Khaled International Airport, I felt Jesus’s presence surrounding me like an invisible shield.

My small suitcase contained clothes selected for an Islamic studies student, carefully chosen books that would support my cover story, and hidden deep within the lining, my precious Arabic Bible that had become my lifeline over the past months.

My mother wept quietly as we drove through the fil the familiar streets of my childhood.

She pressed prayer beads into my hands and made me promise to call every week to represent our family with honor and to return as the accomplished young woman she knew I could become.

My father spoke proudly about the educational opportunities awaiting me and the enhanced marriage prospects this experience would create.

Neither of them suspected they were saying goodbye to their daughter forever.

The airport departure lounge felt surreal, like stepping into a different dimension where my old life and new reality existed simultaneously.

I embraced my parents with genuine love and devastating guilt.

Knowing this might be our final moment together.

As I walked through the gate toward my Royal Jordanian flight, every step carried me further from everything I had ever known and closer to a freedom I could barely imagine.

The plane lifted off at 2:30 p.

m.

and I watched Saudi Arabia shrink beneath me through the small window.

The kingdom that had been my entire world became a collection of brown patches and gleaming cities then disappeared entirely as we climbed above the clouds.

For the first time in my life, no male guardian accompanied me.

No family member monitored my movements.

No cultural restrictions limited my possibilities.

The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.

During the short flight to Aman, I found myself torn between excitement and overwhelming grief.

I was choosing Jazus over family, freedom over security, truth over tradition.

The cost felt enormous, even as I remained convinced it was the only path forward.

I whispered prayers of gratitude for this miraculous escape while mourning the relationships I was about to sacrifice for my faith.

Ammon appeared below us like a promise of new possibilities.

The Jordanian capital spread across seven hills as ancient stones and modern buildings creating a landscape that felt both foreign and welcoming.

As we descended toward Queen Aliyah International Airport, I realized I was literally flying toward my rebirth, leaving behind Kadija, the Saudi princess, and embracing whoever I was meant to become as a daughter of Christ.

The moment I cleared Jordanian customs and immigration, clutching my student visa and acceptance letter from the Islamic Academy, I made my way to a small chapel Maria had told me about near the airport.

My hands shook as I pushed open the door and stepped into my first Christian church service.

The sight of men and women worshiping together, of families praying side by side without gender segregation moved me to tears I had been holding back for months.

The pastor, a gentle Jordanian man named Father Mikuel, welcomed me with the kind of unconditional love I had experienced only in my vision of Jesus.

When I quietly explained my situation during a private conversation after the service, his eyes filled with understanding and compassion.

He had helped other Saudi women navigate similar transitions, and he immediately began connecting me with resources for asylum seekers and religious converts.

That first night in Aman, sleeping in a simple guest house run by a Christian organization, I experienced peace unlike anything from my previous life.

No guards monitored my movements.

No family members controlled my schedule.

No cultural expectations dictated my behavior.

For the first time in 18 years, I fell asleep as a free woman, answerable to no earthly authority except the Jesus who had orchestrated my escape.

The next morning brought my first public confession of faith.

Standing in the Jordan River at the traditional baptism site where Jesus himself had been baptized by John the Baptist, I felt the weight of 18 years of false religion washing away as Father Mikuel lowered me beneath the water.

When I emerged gasping and laughing and crying all at once, I knew I had been reborn, not just spiritually, but practically.

Kadijah, the Muslim princess, had died in those ancient waters.

Kadijah, the Christian daughter, had risen in her place.

My first Christian church service that Sunday overwhelmed me with its beauty and freedom.

Women participated in worship alongside men.

Their voices lifted in songs of praise without shame or restriction.

Children played quietly in their mother’s arms instead of being separated by gender requirements.

The sermon focused on Jesus’s love for outcasts and foreigners as if Father Mikuel had crafted his message specifically for my situation.

But freedom came with immediate and devastating consequences.

Within two weeks of my departure, my family discovered the truth about my conversion.

My mother had called the Islamic Academy, expecting to hear reports of my excellent progress, only to learn that I had never enrolled.

When academy officials mentioned they had been concerned about my absence, my family realized I had deceived them completely.

The phone calls that followed broke my heart into pieces I thought might never heal.

My father’s rage was followed by my mother’s heartbroken sobs, then by my brother’s threats and ultimatums.

They demanded my immediate return, promising forgiveness if I came home and submitted to an immediate marriage that would end my rebellion.

When I gently but firmly refused, explaining that I had found peace and purpose in following Jesus, the conversation ended with a declaration that shattered my world.

“You are no longer our daughter,” my father pronounced with cold finality.

“You have brought shame upon our family name and disgrace upon our faith.

Do not contact us again.

You are dead to us.

” The line went silent and I understood that the family I had loved and who had loved me was gone forever.

The grief that followed was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Even knowing I had made the right choice, even feeling Jesus’s presence sustaining me through each difficult day, I mourned the loss of my earthly family with a pain that seemed bottomless.

Some nights I cried myself to sleep, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I had sacrificed for my faith.

Other nights I lay awake marveling at the peace that filled my heart despite the circumstances.

Learning to live as a free Christian woman required relearning everything I thought I knew about identity, purpose, and relationships.

The simplest activities became adventures and liberty.

Walking alone through Aman’s markets without male supervision felt revolutionary.

Choosing my own clothes, my own schedule, my own friends seemed like superpowers I had never imagined possessing.

The Christian community that surrounded me in Jordan became my new family, proving that God’s love creates bonds stronger than blood relationships.

Fellow believers from around the world shared their stories of sacrifice and redemption, helping me understand that my experience, while extreme, was part of a larger narrative of people choosing Jesus over cultural acceptance.

Within months, I began sharing my testimony with other Muslim women who were questioning their faith or trapped in oppressive situations.

My story became a bridge between the Islamic world I had left and the Christian community that had embraced me.

Speaking at women’s conferences and refugee centers, I discovered that my painful journey had prepared me to offer hope to others facing similar crossroads.

Education opportunities that had been forbidden in Saudi Arabia opened before me.

Like flowers blooming in spring, I enrolled in university courses, studied subjects that had been deemed inappropriate for women in my former culture, and discovered intellectual gifts I had never been allowed to develop.

The God who had set me free was also expanding my mind and revealing purposes I had never imagined.

Two years after my escape, I met David, a Christian aid worker whose gentle strength reminded me of the Jess I had encountered in my vision.

Our courtship was a revelation of what relationships could be when built on mutual respect and shared faith rather than male dominance and female submission.

When he proposed, I experienced the joy of choosing my own husband based on love rather than having one imposed through family negotiations.

Our wedding in 2019 was everything my arranged marriage to uncle Khalil would not have been.

Surrounded by our Christian family and friends, we exchanged vows that promised partnership rather than ownership, love rather than duty, freedom rather than control.

As I walked down the aisle wearing a dress I had chosen toward a man who cherished rather than possessed me, I felt the presence of Jesus celebrating with us.

Today, as I share this testimony with you, I am the mother of two beautiful children who will grow up knowing they are loved unconditionally by their heavenly father and their earthly parents.

My daughter will never be sold as property to secure family alliances.

My son will learn to treat women as equals created in God’s image.

They represent the redemption of my story and the hope of future generations.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself this question.

Is there something in your life that feels like a prison? Some situation that seems hopeless, some relationship or circumstance that makes you feel more like property than a beloved child of God.

The same Jesus who heard my desperate prayer in a Saudi palace is listening to your heart at this very moment.

I lost an earthly family but gained an eternal father.

I sacrificed cultural approval but received unconditional love.

I left behind security and status but found freedom and purpose beyond my wildest dreams.

Jesus saw me when I thought I was invisible.

Heard me when I thought I was voiceless and loved me when I felt completely alone.

No prison is too strong for the love of Christ.

No situation is too hopeless for divine intervention.

No family pressure or cultural expectation can ultimately separate you from the God who created you for relationship with him.

The same nailcard hands that reached out to me in a vision are reaching toward you right now.

Offering freedom you never thought possible and love you never imagined could exist.

I am Kadijah, daughter of the King of Kings.

And this is how Jesus Christ set me free.

If he can rescue a Saudi princess from an arranged marriage and transform her into a messenger of hope, imagine what he might do with your surrendered heart.

Will you let him show