Watch the man in white at the center pouring liquid over a book.

His name is Salah, Saudi royalty.

Guests film and laugh as he lights a match.

Then every light dies.

He freezes.

Guests flee in terror.

The book remains untouched.

My name is Salah.

On October 20th, 2019, I was a member of the Saudi royal family.

I had wealth beyond imagination, power that opened every door, and arrogance that knew no limits.

That night, I plan to mock Jesus Christ for entertainment.

I had no idea I was about to meet him face to face.

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

My father was a highranking member of the Saudi royal family, which meant I grew up surrounded by more wealth than I could ever spend in 10 lifetimes.

We had palaces in Riyad, London, and the French Riviera.

Private jets waiting on standby.

Servants who knew my preferences before I did.

I never stood in a line for anything.

I never heard the word no.

But with all that privilege came expectations.

My father was deeply religious, a man who never missed his five daily prayers and spent hours studying the Quran.

My mother was equally devoted, covering herself completely and raising us children with strict Islamic values.

From the time I could walk, I was told that Islam was the one true faith.

We fasted during Ramadan.

We memorized verses from the Quran.

We understood that our religion was our identity, inseparable from who we were as Saudis and as royals.

I believed it all, at least in the beginning.

How could I not? Everyone around me believed it.

My entire world revolved around these truths.

But here is what happens when you grow up with unlimited resources and power.

You start to feel invincible.

You start to believe that rules are for other people.

And slowly, quietly, you begin to think that maybe you know better than everyone else.

When I was 15, my father sent me to boarding school in Switzerland.

It was common among royal families, a way to give us international exposure and connections.

That was the first time I really encountered Christianity up close.

The school had a chapel.

Some of my classmates were Christians who actually believed what they said.

They believed.

They prayed before meals.

They talked about Jesus like he was real, like he mattered.

I found it confusing at first, then offensive.

How could God have a son? How could the creator of the universe allow himself to be killed by his own creation? It made no sense to my teenage mind.

The whole thing seemed weak to me.

In Islam, we had a powerful God who could never be defeated or humiliated.

But Christians worshiped someone who died on a cross like a common criminal.

I remember thinking that if that was their god, no wonder they seemed so soft, so ready to turn the other cheek.

I started asking my Christian classmates questions, not because I wanted answers, but because I wanted to prove them wrong.

I would corner them in debates, use logic and reason to dismantle their beliefs.

Most of them could not answer me well.

That made me feel superior, like I had won something.

By the time I left that school, I had developed a quiet contempt for Christianity.

I never said it out loud around my parents, but it was there growing inside me.

University in London was even worse.

I had more freedom, more money, and more time to do whatever I wanted.

I fill in with a crowd of wealthy young men from various Middle Eastern royal families who are all in the same boat, born into power, but living in the west, straddling two worlds.

And in that space between cultures, some of us started to question things.

Not because we were genuinely seeking truth, but because questioning felt rebellious and modern.

That is when the mockery started.

It began innocently enough, just jokes among friends at private parties.

Someone would make a comment about Christianity and we would all laugh.

Then I started doing impressions, reading Bible verses and exaggerated voices to make everyone laugh.

I became known for it.

The prince who was not afraid to say what others were thinking.

The one who could make even the most serious religious discussions into entertainment.

My friends encouraged it.

They would request performances asking me to do my Christian preacher voice or to explain some Bible story in the most ridiculous way possible.

I fed off their laughter and approval.

It made me feel clever, bold, like I was somehow defending Islam by attacking Christianity.

But looking back now, I see the truth.

I was not defending anything.

I was just feeding my own pride.

I started collecting Bibles as props.

I would buy them from bookstores and bring them to parties.

Sometimes I would read passages and twist the meanings making Jesus sound foolish or weak.

Other times I would just hold the book up and make jokes about it.

My cousin who was more religious than me pulled me aside one night and said, “Be careful Salah.

You are playing with fire.

I laughed at him.

I actually laughed and said there is nothing to fear from a dead prophet.

Now ask yourself this question.

When does confidence become arrogance? When does questioning become mockery? I thought I was so enlightened, so modern, so brave for challenging what others believed.

But deep down I think I was afraid.

Afraid to examine my own doubts about Islam, afraid to admit that maybe I did not have all the answers.

It was easier to attack someone else’s faith than to confront the emptiness in my own.

As social media grew, so did my reputation.

I had private accounts where I would post subtle jabs at Christianity.

Nothing too public because I still had to maintain the family image but enough that people in my circles knew where I stood.

I gained a reputation as progressive, modern, unafraid.

Young royals looked up to me.

Businessmen wanted to be associate with me.

I was the prince who said what everyone else was too scared to say.

But my brother saw through it.

He confronted me privately one evening and said this is not who we are.

This is not how we were raised.

I dismissed him immediately.

I told him I was defending Islam that someone had to stand up against the spread of Christianity in our culture.

But he just shook his head and walked away.

That was the last real conversation we had before everything changed.

The truth is the louder I mocked, the less I had to think.

The more I made others laugh, the less I had to face my own questions.

And by 2019, I had become so good at performing that I had almost convinced myself it was real.

Almost convinced myself that I was doing something important, something meaningful.

I had no idea that I was building toward a moment that would shatter everything I thought I knew.

September 2019.

I was at an exclusive gathering at my friend’s palace in Riyad.

About 30 people were there, all from the highest social circles.

Other royals, wealthy businessmen, a few celebrities who had connections to our world.

We were in his private lounge drinking expensive liquor that was technically illegal but readily available to people like us.

The conversation was flowing.

Everyone relaxed and in good spirits.

Then my friend, the host turned to me in front of everyone and said, “Salah, you talk a big game about Christianity.

But words are cheap.

If you really believe it is all false, prove it.

Really prove it.

” The room went quiet.

Everyone was looking at me.

I could feel that challenge hanging in the air.

Other people started joining in, egging me on.

One person said, “Yeah, do something no one else would dare to do.

” Another said, “Show as you mean what you say.

” My pride flared up immediately.

I was not about to back down in front of all these people.

I said, “Name it, and I will do anything.

” My friend smiled and said, “Burn a Bible on camera in front of all of us.

Show everyone that Christianity means nothing.

The room erupted.

Some people laughed nervously.

Others cheered.

A few looked uncomfortable but said nothing.

I felt my heart racing, not from fear but from excitement.

This was the ultimate statement.

This would cement my reputation forever.

I agreed on the spot.

We set a date three weeks out, October 20th, which happened to be my friend’s birthday.

I told him I would host it at my own palace, that I would make it an event people would never forget.

As we left that night, people kept coming up to me telling me how brave I was, how legendary this would be.

I felt invincible.

I felt like I was about to do something that mattered.

The next three weeks were spent planning.

I wanted everything to be perfect, theatrical, memorable.

I decided to host it at my private palace in Riyad in one of the large reception rooms.

I invited 40 people from the absolute highest levels of Saudi society.

People who would appreciate what I was doing, people who thought like me.

I obtained an expensive Bible, leather bound with gilded edges.

I wanted it to look significant so that burning it would feel even more powerful.

I had my staff set up a golden table in the center of the room.

I arranged for candles to create atmosphere.

I bought expensive French wine specifically to pour over the Bible before burning it.

The symbolism felt important to me.

Wine was forbidden in Islam.

The Bible was sacred to Christians.

Combining them in destruction felt like the perfect statement.

I hired a private videographer and made sure everyone knew to bring their phones.

I wanted this documented.

I wanted proof of what I had done.

My wife tried to stop me.

We had an arranged marriage and she was a devout Muslim, much more traditional than I was.

When I told her what I was planning, she actually grabbed my arm and said, “Please, Salah, this is too far.

You are going to bring shame on our family.

” I pulled away from her and said, “If you disapprove, then stay home.

I do not need your permission.

” She started crying, but I walked away.

I did not want anyone weakening my resolve.

October 20th arrived.

I spent the whole day feeling electric with anticipation.

My servants prepared everything exactly as I had instructed.

The golden table was polished until it gleamed.

The candles were arranged perfectly.

The Bible sat in my private office waiting.

I kept going into look at it throughout the day feeling that surge of power each time.

Tonight I kept thinking tonight everyone will see who I really am.

Guests started arriving at 11 at night.

Everyone was dressed formally like this was a gala instead of what it actually was.

The atmosphere in the room was charged.

People were drinking, laughing, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation.

They were waiting for the main event.

My friends kept hyping me up, telling me I was a legend, that no one else would have the courage to do what I was about to do.

I fed of their energy.

I felt like a performer about to give the show of my life.

At 11:30, I decided it was time.

I called for everyone’s attention.

The room fell silent immediately.

Uh I had them bring out the Bible on a silver tray like it was some kind of ceremonial object.

I placed it on the golden table with exaggerated care.

Then I started my performance.

I opened the Bible to random passages and read them in mocking tones.

I found the verse that says Jesus wept and I said, “Of course he wept.

He was weak.

He knew he was about to lose.

” People laughed.

Someone shouted encouragement.

I flipped to a story about Jesus turning water into wine.

I held up my glass and said, “This is nothing special.

I turn money into more money every single day.

Where is my religion? More laughter, more phones coming out to record.

I could see people’s faces in the glow of their screens.

All of them smiling, all of them entertained.

This was going exactly as I had planned.

Then I announced, “And now we send this fairy tale back to the dust where it belongs.

” I picked up the bottle of expensive French wine, the same wine I had been drinking all night, and slowly poured it over the Bible.

The liquid soaked into the pages, darkening the leather cover.

People cheered.

Someone whistled.

I felt powerful.

I felt like I was making history in my own small way.

I was the prince who was not afraid of anything or anyone.

I pulled out my golden lighter, a gift from my father, ironically.

I flicked it and the flame danced to life.

I held it up so everyone could see.

Phones were everywhere now, all pointed at me, all recording this moment.

I looked around the room at all those faces, all those people who thought I was so brave, so bold.

I felt their admiration like a physical force.

This was my moment.

This was everything I had built toward.

I brought the flame down slowly, deliberately.

I wanted to savor this.

I wanted to remember every second.

The lighter flame moved closer to the wine soaked pages.

My hand was completely steady.

My heart was racing, but not from fear, from pure exhilaration.

I was about to do something irreversible, something that would define me.

Just a few more inches, just a few more seconds.

That is when everything changed.

That is when my entire world shattered.

The flame was maybe 2 in from the Bible.

When I felt it, heat, not from the lighter, that was barely warm in my hand.

This was different.

This was heat that seemed to come from everywhere at once, pressing against my skin, like I had walked into a furnace.

Within seconds, the temperature in the room became unbearable.

I saw other people start to shift uncomfortably, pulling at their colors, looking around in confusion.

Someone said out loud, “Why is it so hot in here?” Then every single candle in that room went out.

Not a breeze, not a draft, just extinguished all at once.

Like someone had flipped a switch.

A heartbeat later, all the electric lights died, too.

The room plunged into complete darkness except for the glow from people’s phones and my lighter still burning in my hand.

I heard gasps, confused murmurss, someone laughing nervously, thinking it was part of the show.

But I knew better.

I knew immediately that something was very very wrong.

That is when I realized I could not move.

My entire body had locked in place.

My arm was still extended toward the Bible.

The lighter still flickering in my fingers, but I could not pull back.

I could not lower my hand.

I could not turn my head.

It was like my whole body had turned to stone.

I was frozen midotion, completely paralyzed.

I tried to open my mouth to call out, but my jaw would not work.

No words came.

I could not even close my eyes.

Panic flooded through me, but I could not express it.

I could only stand there, trapped in my own body, feeling that unbearable heat getting stronger.

My heart started pounding so violently.

I thought it would explode out of my chest.

I could hear it in my ears, feel it shaking my whole body.

But I could not move.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to drop the lighter.

I wanted to run.

But I was completely powerless.

Then I felt something else.

Tears.

They started streaming down my face.

Even though I was not crying, not emotionally, they just poured out of my eyes like my body was responding to something my mind had not caught up to yet.

Hot tears running down my cheeks while I stood there frozen, unable to wipe them away, unable to do anything but feel them fall around me.

I could hear the guests starting to panic, voices rising in the darkness.

What is happening? Why are the lights out? Someone check the power.

But their voices sounded distant, muffled, like I was hearing them from underwater.

All I could focus on was that heat and the terror coursing through me and the feeling that I was standing in front of something massive, something I could not see but knew was there.

Something that was looking directly at me.

I have never felt so small in my entire life.

Me, a prince, someone who had commanded respect and fear and admiration from everyone around me.

In that moment, I felt like an insect, like I was nothing, like I was being seen for exactly what I was and there was nowhere to hide.

That feeling was worse than the paralysis, worse than the heat.

It was the feeling of being completely exposed, completely known, and found utterly lacking.

My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

Each breath was a struggle, a desperate gasp.

My legs wanted to collapse, but they were locked in place, holding me upright when all I wanted was to fall to the ground.

The lighter was still burning in my hand.

I could see it’s a small flame reflected in the darkness.

That tiny light that I had thought would destroy something sacred now seemed pathetic, insignificant.

Then people’s phones started dying.

Not all at once, but one by one.

I could see screens flickering, going black.

People were tapping them frantically, saying, “My phone just died.

Mine too.

What is going on?” The room was getting darker and darker.

Someone screamed.

Not a scream of surprise but real terror.

That scream broke something in the atmosphere.

Suddenly everyone was scared.

I heard footsteps, people moving.

Someone shouted, “I am getting out of here.

” Another voice panicked, “Where is the door? I cannot see.

Get me out.

Let me out.

” But I still could not move.

I was aware of people rushing past me in the darkness, bumping into furniture, into each other.

Someone knocked into my shoulder, but I did not budge, did not sway.

I was like a statue.

The heat kept intensifying.

Sweat was pouring down my face, mixing with the tears.

My clothes were soaked.

I thought I might pass out, but I did not.

I remained conscious through all of it, forced to feel everything, to experience every second.

My heart was still hammering.

My lungs were burning.

My muscles were screaming from being locked in position.

But none of that compared to the emotional weight pressing down on me.

The sense that I had done something terrible, something unforgivable.

I could hear people crying now.

Someone was praying out loud in Arabic.

Desperate please for protection.

Another person was sobbing, saying over and over, “I am sorry.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

” The videographer I had hired was shouting that his equipment was dead.

Everything was dead.

He needed to leave.

The sounds of panic filled the room, but I could not join them.

I could only stand there, frozen, holding that lighter, tears streaming down my face.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Have you ever felt the weight of your own guilt all at once? Not just knowing you did something wrong, but feeling it in every cell of your body.

That is what I experienced.

Every joke I had made, every Bible I had mocked, every time I had laughed at Jesus, it all crashed down on me in that moment.

The full weight of years of blasphemy and arrogance.

I wanted to take it all back.

I would have given anything to undo what I had done.

But it was too late.

Then as suddenly as it started, my hand released.

The lighter dropped from my fingers and clattered on the floor going out.

My legs gave way and I crashed to my knees.

The impact heard, but I barely felt it.

I was gasping, gulping air.

My whole body shaking uncontrollably around me.

I could hear the lust of the guests scrambling for the exits.

Footsteps pounding, doors slamming, voices fading into the distance.

Within seconds, the room was nearly empty.

The lights flickered back on just like that, as if nothing had happened.

The sudden brightness made me squint.

I was on my knees on the floor, soaking wet with the sweat, tears still running down my face.

My whole body was trembling.

I looked up at the golden table at the Bible, and I could not believe what I saw.

It was completely dry, not a single drop of wine on it.

The pages were pristine, the leather cover unblenmished.

It looked exactly as it had before I poured anything on it.

I stared at it, unable to process what I was seeing.

I had watched the wine soak into those pages.

I had seen it darken the cover.

40 other people had watched it happen.

It was on video, but now there was nothing, no evidence, no stain, no damage, just a perfect untouched Bible sitting on that golden table like I had never laid a hand on it.

That is when I knew whatever had just happened, it was not a power outage.

It was not mass hysteria.

It was not explainable by any rational means.

Something had intervened.

Someone had stopped me.

And that someone was the very person I had spent years mocking.

I was still on my knees, unable to stand, staring at that Bible.

And for the first time in my life, I was truly afraid.

Not of men, not of consequences, but of God.

I do not know how long I stayed on that floor.

It could have been five minutes or 50.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

My staff eventually found me there, still on my knees, staring at that Bible on the golden table.

They thought I was having a medical emergency.

Two servants rushed over trying to help me up, asking if I needed a doctor, if I was in pain.

I pushed them away violently.

I did not want anyone touching me.

I did not want anyone near me.

One of the younger servants reached for the Bible to clear the table, and I screamed at him, “Do not touch it.

Do not go near it.

” My voice came out raw and broken.

He jumped back, terrified.

I had never yelled at my stuff like that before.

They all stood, they’re frozen, not knowing what to do with me.

I could see the confusion and fear in their faces.

Finally, I managed to get to my feet.

My legs were shaking so badly, I could barely stand.

I told them to clean up the party mess, but to leave the Bible exactly where it was.

Then I stumbled out of the room toward my private quarters.

The walk through my own palace felt surreal.

The hallways that I had walked through thousands of times suddenly felt foreign, threatening.

Every shadow seemed alive.

Every sound made me jump.

I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see something or someone following me.

By the time I reached my bedroom and locked the door behind me, I was trembling from head to toe.

I went straight to the bathroom and threw up.

Then I sat on the cold tile floor with my back against the wall, hugging my knees to my chest like a child.

I could not stop shaking.

My mind kept replaying what had happened.

The heat, the paralysis, that feeling of being seen, really seen for what I was.

I tried to tell myself it was not real, that there had to be a logical explanation.

Maybe there was a gas leak that caused hallucinations.

Maybe the electrical system had malfunctioned in some bizarre way.

Maybe I had been drugged.

I grasped at any explanation that would let me maintain my world view.

But none of them could explain the Bible being dry.

None of them could explain 40 people experiencing the same thing at the same time.

I did not sleep that night.

I could not.

Every time I closed my eyes, I felt that heat again.

Felt my body locking up.

Felt that crushing weight of guilt.

I got up and paced my room.

I sat on the bed.

I stood at the window, staring out at the city lights.

I tried to pray the way I had been taught.

The Islamic prayers I had said since childhood, but the words felt empty in my mouth.

They would not come.

It was like something was blocking them.

Around 3:00 in the morning, I grabbed my phone.

I had been avoiding it, but I needed to see if anyone but I had said nothing.

I had 47 missed calls, over 100 text messages, all from people who had been at the party.

I started reading through them.

What was that? We need to talk.

Did you see what happened? I cannot explain it.

My hands were shaking as I scrolled.

Then I saw a message from my friend who had hosted the party in September, the one who had challenged me in the first place.

It said, “We are not posting any videos.

Delete everything you have.

We never speak of this again.

” I checked my messages with other guests.

The same sentiment everywhere.

Everyone agreed.

Total silence.

No one would mention what happened.

no videos would be shared.

It was like we had all collectively decided to pretend it never occurred.

But I knew why.

They were scared.

We were all terrified of what we had witnessed.

These were people who feared nothing and no one, who had wealth and power beyond measure, and we were scared like children.

But being scared did not make the questions go away.

If anything, it made them louder.

What was that? What happened to me? Why did the Bible end up dry? I tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming back, relentless, demanding.

By the time the sun rose, I was exhausted, but my mind was more awake than it had ever been.

A question had formed that I could not shake.

What if Jesus is real? What if everything I had mocked, everything I had dismissed was actually true? The thought terrified me.

If Jesus was real, then I had spent years blaspheming against God himself.

I had made a mockery of the creator of the universe.

The weight of that realization was crushing.

But I immediately tried to push it away.

I am Muslim.

This is my identity, my family, my culture, my entire life.

I cannot just abandon that because of one strange experience.

I tried to convince myself it meant nothing, that I was overreacting, that everything would go back to normal.

But the next three days proved me wrong.

I could not eat.

Food tasted like ash in my mouth.

I could not sleep.

Exhaustion pulled at me.

But the moment I lay down, my eyes would snap open.

And that scene would play again in my mind.

My servants noticed.

They whispered among themselves when they thought I could not hear.

The prince is unwell.

Something happened at the party.

He has not been the same since.

They were right.

I was not the same.

Something fundamental had broken inside me.

My father summoned me on the third day.

As the king, he had heard rumors that something strange occurred at my gathering.

People were talking despite the agreement to stay silent.

When powerful people experience something inexplicable, word gets out no matter how much uh they try to contain it.

I went to his office in the main palace, my stomach in knots.

He asked me directly what happened at my party.

Why were people frightened? Why was everyone being so secretive? I lied to his face.

I told him it was nothing, just a power outage that scared some guests that people were being dramatic and superstitious.

He studied me for a long moment.

I could tell he did not fully believe me, but he did not press further.

He simply warned me to be more careful about uh the company I kept and the events I hosted.

Our family image was important.

I assured him it would not happen again.

That much at least was true.

I would never host anything like that again.

I would never mock Christianity again.

But not because of family image because I was terrified.

On the fourth day after the incident, I made a decision.

I needed to understand what had happened.

I needed answers and there was only one place to get them.

I called one of my most trusted servants to my private study.

He had been with my family for 20 years.

I told him I needed him to do something for me and to tell no one.

He agreed immediately, loyal as always.

I said, “Go to the Christian area of the city and buy me a Bible, a new one.

Bring it back discreetly.

” He looked confused, probably wondering why I would want another Bible after what had happened with the last one.

but he was too well-trained to ask questions.

He left and returned two hours later with the simple bubble wrapped in plain paper.

I locked myself in my study with it.

My hands were shaking as I unwrapped it.

Part of me was afraid to touch it, afraid something would happen again.

But I had to know.

I had to understand.

I opened it carefully like it might explode.

Nothing happened.

just pages and words.

I started reading from the beginning.

Genesis, the creation story.

It was similar to what I knew from Islam, but different in key ways.

I kept reading, but felt nothing.

No answers, no clarity.

I was about to close it when something made me skip ahead.

I flipped through the pages until I landed in the Gospels.

Matthew, then Mark, then Luke, stories about Jesus, his teachings, his miracles, his claims.

Then I got to a passage where Jesus was teaching.

He said, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

” I stopped.

I read it again.

Love your enemies.

I thought about all the times I had mocked Christians, attacked their faith, made them the enemy, and their savior had told them to love people like me, to pray for people like me.

Something cracked inside my chest, not physically, but emotionally.

A fishure in the wall I had built around my heart.

What kind of prophet tells his followers to love the people who hate them? What kind of God dies for people who mock him? I closed the Bible and sat there in the silence of my study.

The sun was setting outside, casting long shadows across the room.

And for the first time since the incident, I let myself really consider the possibility.

What if it was true? What if Jesus really was who he claimed to be? What if that night when I was about to burn his word, he had stopped me? Not with violence, not with punishment, but with a demonstration of power that left me shaken, but alive, humiliated, but unharmed.

I did not have answers yet.

But the questions were no longer ones I could ignore.

They had taken root in my mind and heart, and I knew somehow I knew that my life would never be the same.

Everything I thought I understood about God, about truth, about myself was being challenged.

And deep down in a place I was not ready to fully acknowledge yet, I think I already knew where this was leading.

I just was not ready to accept it.

Not yet.

One week after the incident, October 27th, it was 3:00 in the morning and I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

I had not really slept in seven days.

My body was exhausted, but my mind would not stop.

For seven days, I had been reading that Bible in secret, hiding it like contraband in my own palace.

I read the Gospels over and over.

I read about Jesus healing the sick, raising the dead, forgiving sinners.

I read his words about loving your neighbor, about losing your life to find it, about taking up your cross and following him.

Every word felt like it was written specifically for me.

When I read about the Pharisees who were religious but prideful, I saw myself.

When I read about Saul persecuting Christians before becoming Paul, I saw a mirror of my own life.

When I read about Peter denying Jesus three times, I thought about all the times I had denied him, mocked him, dismissed him.

The guilt was becoming unbearable.

It was like a weight to my chest that got heavier every day.

But it was not just guilt.

There was something else happening inside me.

As I read Jesus’s words, I felt something I had never experienced before.

Hope.

Real hope.

Not the superficial confidence I had felt as a prince with unlimited resources.

Not the empty arrogance I had carried around for years.

but genuine hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be forgiven, that maybe my life could mean something more than wealth and status and entertaining people at parties.

That night, October 27th, at 3:00 in the morning, I could not take it anymore.

The internal bottle had worn me down.

Part of me wanted to close the Bible, throw it away, forget everything that had happened, and go back to my old life.

But I knew I could not.

I had seen too much.

I had felt too much.

There was no going back.

The question was not whether Jesus was real anymore.

The question was what I was going to do about it.

I got out of bed and fell to my knees.

Not because someone told me to.

Not because I was following a ritual, but because my legs would not hold me anymore.

The weight of everything I had done, everything I had been brought me down.

I kneelled there in my bedroom in the darkness and I did not know how to pray.

I had prayed five times a day my entire life but I had no idea how to talk to Jesus.

So I just spoke out loud like he was there in the room with me.

Jesus if you are there, if that was really you that night, I am sorry.

I am so sorry.

The words came out broken barely above a whisper.

Tears started falling again just like they had that night at the party.

But this time they were different.

These were not tears of terror.

These were tears of shame and regret and desperation.

I am so sorry for everything.

For the mockery, for the jokes, for treating you like you were nothing.

For my pride, for thinking I was better than everyone.

For all of it.

I’m so sorry.

I stayed there on my knees and something happened.

No bright lights, no audible voice, no supernatural sign, but peace.

A peace that made absolutely no sense given my circumstances.

It has started in my chest and spread through my whole body like warm water.

The crushing weight I had been carrying for a week suddenly lifted, not all at once, but gradually, like someone was removing stones one by one from my shoulders.

I could breathe again, really breathe for the first time in seven days.

I kept talking.

I poured out everything.

All my doubts about Islam that I had buried for years.

All my emptiness despite having everything money could buy.

All my fear about what my life had become.

All my questions about meaning and purpose and truth.

I told him I did not understand how God could die.

how that made any sense but that I believed it anyway because of what I had experienced.

I told him I did not know what would happen to me if I followed him but that I wanted to that I needed to.

The words just kept coming.

I spent three hours on that floor talking to Jesus like I had never talked to anyone in my life.

I told him things I had never admitted to myself.

About the loneliness of being surrounded by people who only valued my title and money.

About the fear that my life was meaningless.

About the hole inside me that no amount of wealth or power could fill.

About how I had spent years attacking Christianity because I was afraid it might be true.

And if it was true, then everything about my identity would have to change.

And somewhere in those 3 hours, in the midst of that confession, I understood something.

Jesus already knew all of this.

He had known it when I was mocking him.

He had known it when I poured wine on his word.

He had known it when I brought that lighter close to burn it.

and he had stopped me, not to punish me, not to destroy me, but to save me, to wake me up before I went too far.

That realization broke me completely.

I forgive you.

I did not hear it audibly, but I felt it deep in my soul.

Like a truth that had always been there, but I had finally become quiet enough to recognize it.

He forgave me all of it.

Every joke, every mockery, every moment of arrogance and blasphemy.

Forgiven.

I did not deserve it.

I had not earned it.

There was nothing I could do to make up for what I had done.

But he forgave me anyway.

That is what grace means.

That is what love actually is.

By the time the sun started rising, I was exhausted but different.

Something fundamental had shifted inside me.

The old Salah, the prince who mocked Christianity for entertainment, was gone, dead.

In his place was someone new, someone who had met Jesus and been completely transformed by that encounter.

I got up from my knees and looked at myself in the mirror.

Same face, same body, but different eyes.

I could see it.

The hardness was gone.

The arrogance had melted away.

What looked back at me was someone humble, broken, and strangely at peace.

I knew what this meant.

I had given my life to Jesus Christ.

Not because I was scared into it, though fear had certainly played a role in getting my attention, but because I finally understood what love actually means.

real love, sacrificial love, the kind of love that dies for people who hate you.

The kind of love that stops you from destroying yourself even when you deserve judgment.

That kind of love demands a response.

You cannot encounter it and stay the same.

But I also knew what this would cost me.

In Saudi Arabia, leaving Islam is not just frowned upon.

It is punishable by death.

Converting to Christianity would mean losing everything.

My title, my family, my wealth, my safety, my entire identity, everything I had known and been my whole life would be stripped away.

And yet in that moment, I did not care.

What I had gained was worth more than anything I would lose.

Jesus was worth it.

Truth was worth it.

Real life, abundant life, eternal life was worth infinitely more than palaces and titles and money.

I spent that day in a days.

I went through the motions of normal life, but everything felt different.

Colors seemed brighter.

Food tasted better despite the fact I had barely eaten in a week.

Even my servants commented that I seemed lighter somehow, like a burden had been lifted from me.

They were right.

The burden of pretending to have it all together, while being empty inside was gone.

I was free in a way I had never been free before, even with all my wealth and power.

But I knew I needed help.

I could not do this alone.

I needed to find Christians, real Christians who could teach me, guide me, help me understand what I had just committed my life to.

I remembered the servant I had sent to buy the Bible.

I called him to my study again and asked him directly, “Are you a Christian?” He went pale in Saudi Arabia, even admitting that can be dangerous.

But something in my face must have told him it was safe because he nodded slowly.

Yes, your highness I am.

I told him everything about the party, about what happened, about the past week, about that morning and giving my life to Jesus.

He started crying.

He said he had been praying for me for years, watching me mock the faith he held in secret, asking God to open my eyes.

And now here I was, a Saudi prince, telling him I had become a Christian.

He said it was a miracle.

He was right.

It was.

I asked him if he could help me meet other believers.

He said yes, but that it would be dangerous for everyone involved.

I told him I did not care about that danger.

I needed to learn.

I needed community.

I needed to understand this new life I had chosen.

That within days he had arranged a meeting, a secret gathering of underground Christians in Riyad.

15 people in a hidden room risking their lives to worship Jesus together.

When I walked in, they stared at me in shock.

They recognized me.

Everyone in Saudi Arabia knew the royal family by face.

They thought I was there to arrest them or worse.

But my servant explained what had happened.

I told them my story.

By the end, several of them were weeping.

They welcomed me like family, like I had always belonged there.

These people who had every reason to hate me, who I had mocked and dismissed, welcomed me with open arms.

The pastor, a man who had been a Christian for 30 years in secret, prayed with me.

He explained salvation, grace, what it means to follow Jesus.

He told me I should be baptized, but that it was too dangerous to do it in Saudi Arabia.

We would have to wait.

He gave me more materials to read, helped me understand the Bible better, taught me how to pray.

For the next two weeks, I met with this group as often as I could.

I was like a sponge, soaking up everything they taught me.

My entire world view was being reconstructed from the ground up.

But I knew I could not hide this forever.

Eventually I would have to tell my family.

Eventually there would be consequences.

The question was not if but when.

And I decided it would be sooner rather than later.

I could not live a double life.

I could not pretend to be Muslim while following Jesus in secret.

That was not what he had called me to.

He had called me to take up my cross.

That meant being willing to lose everything for his sake.

So I made the decision.

I would tell my father I would tell the king and I would accept whatever came after that.

November 10th, 2019, 21 days after the incident that changed my life, I requested a private audience with my father, the king.

My hands were shaking as I walked through the palace towards his office.

I had faced many difficult moments in my life, but nothing compared to this.

I was about to tell the most powerful man in my world, the man who had raised me in Islam that I had converted to Christianity.

I knew what it meant.

I knew what I was risking.

But I also knew I had no choice.

Following Jesus meant being honest, no matter the cost.

My father’s office was exactly as I remembered it.

Ornate furniture, expensive carpets, walls lined with Islamic calligraphy and family portraits.

He sat behind his massive desk reading documents, the weight of running a nation visible in the lines on his face.

When I entered, he looked up and smiled.

That smile broke my heart because I knew it would not last.

He gestured for me to sit.

He asked how I was doing.

Mentioned he had noticed I seemed different lately.

Hoped everything was all right.

The kindness in his voice made what I had to do even harder.

I told him I needed to confess something, that I had made a decision that would affect our entire family.

He sat down his papers, giving me his full attention.

His expression shifted from warm to concerned.

I could see him bracing himself, trying to imagine what I might say.

But I know he never could have guessed what came next.

Father, I said, my voice barely steady.

I have converted to Christianity.

I believe Jesus Christ is Lord.

I have given my life to him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

He stared at me like I had just spoken a foreign language he did not understand.

His face went through several expressions in rapid succession.

Confusion, disbelief, then something darker.

His jaw clenched.

His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

He stood up slowly.

And I could see he was trying to control himself.

What did you just say? His voice was quiet but dangerous.

I repeated it.

I told him everything about the party, about what happened, about the past three weeks, about meeting Jesus.

And being unable to deny the truth anymore.

He exploded.

His hands slammed down on the desk so hard that objects jumped.

You what? Are you insane? Have you lost your mind? He started pacing, running his hands through his hair.

Do you understand what you are saying? Do you understand what this means? I stayed seated, trying to remain calm, even though my heart was racing.

I told him I understood perfectly, that I knew the consequences, that I had thought about nothing else for weeks, but that I could not deny what I had experienced.

I could not pretend Jesus was not real.

When I knew he was, my father turned on me with fury I had rarely seen from him.

This is not real.

You were traumatized.

You had some kind of breakdown.

We will get you help, doctors, counselors, whatever you need.

But this, he gestured at me with disgust.

This is not happening.

You are confused.

I shook my head.

I am not confused, father.

For the first time in my life, I am seeing clearly.

He laughed.

But there was no humor in it.

Seeing clearly.

You are throwing away everything.

Your heritage, your family, your faith, your position.

For what? For some Jewish carpenter who died 2,000 years ago.

I stood up then.

Yes.

For him.

Because he is truth.

Because he died for me.

Because he saved me from myself.

My father’s face twisted with rage and pain.

He moved toward me and for a moment I thought he might strike me.

Then he did.

His hand connected with my face so hard my head snapped to the side.

It was the first time he had ever hit me in my entire life.

The shock of it was worse than the pain.

I touched my cheek, tasting blood where my lip had split against my teeth, but I did not move away.

You are no longer my son.

His voice was called now controlled which was somehow worse than the anger.

You are no longer part of this family.

You are no longer Saudi royalty.

As of this moment, you have nothing.

No title, no inheritance, no home, no family, nothing.

Do you understand me? Nothing.

I felt tears burning in my eyes, but I would not let them fall.

Not yet.

I understand, father.

He turned his back to me.

Get out.

Get out of my sight.

You are dead to me.

You are dead to all of us.

I walked out of that office knowing I would never return.

By the time I reached my quarters, word had already spread.

My mother called me sobbing.

How could you do this to us? How could you betray your family, your faith? I tried to explain but she would not listen.

She just kept crying and asking why.

Then she said the words that cut deepest.

I have no son.

I will mourn you as if you died because to me you are dead.

Then she hung up.

I called back but she would not answer.

My siblings sent messages.

Some angry, some confused.

All of them the same basic sentiment.

You are not our brother anymore.

Do not contact us.

My wife, who I had barely seen since the night of the party, filed for divorce immediately.

Our marriage was anulled within days.

Every single connection to my old life was severed like cutting threads with scissors.

Fast and final.

Within 24 hours of telling my father I had lost everything.

my family, my fortune, my status, my identity, everything.

But I had known this would happen.

The underground Christians had warned me.

The Bible had warned me.

Jesus himself had said that following him would cost everything.

That you would have to hate your father and mother and even your own life to be his disciple.

I thought I understood what that meant.

But understanding it intellectually and living it are two completely different things.

The pain of rejection was crushing.

These were people I loved.

People who had been my whole world and they had turned their backs on me without hesitation.

The underground church moved quickly.

They had connections, resources, experience helping converts escape.

Within 2 days, they had arranged everything.

Fake documents, safe houses, a rout out of Saudi Arabia.

November 15th, 5 days after I told my father, I left my country in the middle of the night with one suitcase and the clothes on my back.

Everything else I left behind, the palaces, the cars, the jewelry, the money, all of it meant nothing compared to my life and my faith.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Could you leave everything? Everyone.

Could you walk away from your entire life if following Jesus required it? I am not asking hypothetically.

I am asking you to really consider it because that is what disciplehip sometimes costs.

That is what being a Christian can mean in parts of the world where faith is forbidden.

And I want you to understand that when I made that choice, when I walked away from everything, I was more free than I had ever been in my life.

The journey out was terrifying.

We crossed into Jordan at a remote border point.

My heart pounded the entire time, certain we would be caught, certain I would be dragged back and executed for apostasy.

But we made it.

then to a safe house where I stayed for two weeks.

Then arrangements to relocate to another country, a place I cannot name for safety reasons.

Even now, four years later, I live under a protected identity.

The Saudi government does not forgive apostasy easily.

There are people who would still want me dead if they found me.

My new life is nothing like my old one.

I live in a small apartment, one bedroom, basic furniture, nothing extravagant.

I work a simple job to support myself.

No servants, no luxury, no status, and I have never been happier.

That might sound impossible, but it is true.

The peace I have in Christ is worth more than all the wealth I left behind.

The joy I experience in worship is deeper than any pleasure I ever found in parties and excess.

The purpose I have found in serving others is more fulfilling than any power I wielded as a prince.

6 months after I escaped, I was baptized.

It was in a small church in my new country, surrounded by people who had become my new family.

As I went under the water and came back up, I felt like the last chains of my old life fell away.

I was fully free, fully alive, fully committed to following Jesus, no matter what it cost.

The pastor who baptized me said, “You have lost much, but you have gained infinitely more.

” He was right.

Now, I work with an organization that helps persecuted Christians and Muslim converts who are in danger.

I provide safe houses, help with documentation, offer counseling to people going through uh what I went through.

I have helped dozens of former Muslims escape countries where their lives were at risk for converting to Christianity.

Every person I helped escape reminds me why I left, why it was worth it, why Jesus is worth everything.

I share my testimony carefully online.

I have to be cautious because there are people actively looking for me.

I have received death threats.

There have been attempts to dox me to expose my location.

It is a constant danger I live with.

But hundreds of people have messaged me saying my story changed their life.

That hearing about a Saudi prince who gave up everything for Jesus helped them find the courage to follow him too.

If my testimony brings even one person to Christ, then every sacrifice was worth it.

Some nights are hard, I will not lie to you.

There are times I miss my family desperately.

I think about my mother and wonder if she still thinks about me.

I think about my siblings and hope they are well.

I think about the life I could have had if I had just stayed quiet, kept my faith secret, played the game.

But those thoughts never last long because I know the truth.

That life would have been a lie.

It would have been a prison disguised as a palace.

I would have had everything and been empty inside.

Now I have almost nothing materially.

But I am full of joy and uh peace and purpose.

So I am asking you just as someone who lost everything would, what are you holding on to that is keeping you from Jesus? What comfort or status or relationship or identity are you unwilling to surrender? Because I promise you whatever it is, it is not worth more than him.

Nothing is worth more than him.

Not family, not money, not safety, not even your own life.

Jesus said, “Whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for his sake will find it.

” I lost my life as a Saudi prince and I found real life in Christ.

That CCTV footage we started with, that was the moment my real life began.

The moment I stopped performing and started surrendering.

The moment I stopped mocking and started worshiping.

The moment I encountered the living God and was changed forever.

Jesus is real.

He is powerful.

He is patient and he is waiting for you.

Not with condemnation, not with anger, but with love.

The same love that stopped me from burning his word.

The same love that saved me from myself.

the same love that gave up everything to rescue you.

Do not wait for a dramatic sign like I needed.

He is calling you right now in this moment.

And if you answer yes, it might cost you everything.

It cost me my family, my fortune, my country, my safety, but you will gain infinitely more.

You will gain him and he is worth it all.

My name is Salah.

I was a Saudi prince who mocked Jesus for fun.

But Jesus did not mock me back.

He saved me.

And that is why I am telling you this story today.

Because if he can save someone like me, he can save anyone.

Anyone at all, including