In this video, you will hear the impressive story of Naen Alfahim, a young woman born into one of the most powerful families in Saudi Arabia.

Raised in luxury and under strict religious values, Naen lived a life of appearances and privilege.

But everything changed when she had a supernatural experience that confronted her with a truth previously forbidden, the living presence of Jesus Christ.

From that moment on, her life was turned upside down and the price she paid for her faith was devastating.

This is an intimate, true, and deeply moving account of courage, faith, and liberation.

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It will be a joy to meet you.

May this story speak to your heart.

I was born with everything the world could offer.

I grew up between walls of white marble and solid gold doors where even the sound of footsteps was muffled by Persian carpets worth more than luxury cars.

My name was synonymous with nobility.

I was the daughter of Prince Khaled aled and my childhood was spent among palaces, perfect gardens and hand embroidered dresses from Paris.

I had a room just for my shoes, another just for my handbags.

But what no one saw and what I hid even from myself was that inside I was empty.

A silent, suffocating, constant emptiness.

It was as if I lived in a palace on the outside and a desert on the inside.

My daily life was controlled to the extreme.

Schedules, words, steps.

I smiled in public but cried in the bathroom.

I obeyed but I doubted.

And every night before falling asleep, I looked at the ceiling with the feeling that something very important was missing.

But I didn’t know what.

Everything began to change on an ordinary night.

One of those nights where I simply did everything on autopilot.

Mechanical prayers, checking phone notifications, absolute silence in the hallways.

I turned off the lights in my room and lay down alone as always.

But on that night, there was no darkness.

I closed my eyes and without transition found myself standing in a garden I had never seen before.

The ground shimmerred with such greenness.

The sky was an impossible blue to describe.

And in the midst of that perfect silence, he appeared.

A man in white walking toward me.

The light didn’t illuminate him.

It came from him.

When I looked at his hands, I saw the marks, scars, and then he spoke.

Nadine, my beloved daughter.

At that moment, I cried like I had never cried before.

Not out of fear, not out of shame, but out of relief.

It was as if I had spent my whole life waiting for that moment without knowing it.

And now I knew that man was Jesus.

I woke up with my face soaked in tears.

It was still early morning and the room was completely dark.

The only thing I could hear was the sound of my racing heart.

I sat on the bed for minutes trying to understand what had just happened.

But no matter how much my mind tried to rationalize, my heart knew.

That was no ordinary dream.

I had never felt anything like it.

It was as if I had been touched by something much bigger than I could explain.

I felt an absurd peace, a warmth in my chest, a presence that was still there, even with my eyes open.

I got up slowly, still trembling, and went to the bathroom to wash my face.

I looked at myself in the mirror with a mixture of fear and enchantment.

It seemed as if something in me had awakened, something that had been dormant for a long time.

And I knew, without understanding how, that nothing would ever be the same.

I tried to pray the way I was taught, but I couldn’t.

The Arabic words left my mouth but not my heart.

For the first time, I felt like talking to God for real with my own words as if he were someone who heard me, someone who saw me, someone who loved me.

The next morning, I tried to follow the routine as if nothing had happened.

Breakfast with my mother and sisters, French lessons, fashion consultations via tablet.

But inside, I was somewhere else.

My body was there, but my soul had remained in that garden.

The memory of that look wouldn’t leave my head.

I could barely pay attention to conversations.

My sister asked me about dresses and hairstyles, and I just nodded.

I only thought about the words I heard that night.

Beloved daughter, no one had ever called me that.

Not my father, not my mother.

I was called princess madam, the prince’s daughter, but never beloved.

That broke me inside.

For the first time, someone called me by something that touched my identity and not my title.

I felt I needed to understand what had happened, but I couldn’t tell anyone.

I knew that in my family, even showing curiosity about Christianity could lead to punishment, dishonor, or worse.

And yet something in me was pushing me towards it as if I had been marked in a way that no one could see.

Only me and God.

That same night when everyone was asleep, I took my phone and typed something that made my hands sweat into Google.

Jesus dream man and white scars on hands.

The internet at home was monitored, so I used a VPN that my cousin taught me years ago to watch blocked series.

I never thought I would use it to search for God.

What came up made me freeze.

There were dozens of similar accounts, people from different countries, including places like Iran, Syria, Egypt, all saying they had dreams about Jesus.

Most had also seen a man in white with light around him.

And many mentioned the scars on his hands.

I froze.

I closed my phone and stood still, staring at the ceiling.

Part of me wanted to run away from it, to pretend it was a coincidence, but the other part wanted more.

That same night, I opened my phone again and searched for an online Bible.

I found an app disguised as a calculator.

I installed it and started reading the Gospel of John.

The words seemed to light up something inside me.

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

I read that with tears streaming down my face.

It was as if someone was speaking directly to me right there in the darkness of my princess room.

Over the next few weeks, my life became an internal war zone.

On the outside, I continued to be the perfect Naen, smiling at family gatherings, polite to the servants, dedicated to my lessons in etiquette and Islamic history.

But on the inside, I was being completely deconstructed.

With every verse I read hidden in the bathroom or closet, I felt a mixture of relief and fear.

Fear of being watched, of someone finding out, of losing everything.

But the relief was greater.

I began to feel a kind of peace I had never experienced with the prayers I said before.

The God I was reading about in the Bible seemed to know me for real.

He wasn’t distant, severe, or impersonal.

He was close.

I began to call him my father.

In silence, inside my head.

It was almost instinctive.

It was natural, but also dangerous.

I was falling in love with Jesus.

And in my country, that was equivalent to signing my own death sentence.

It was during this period of internal conflict that I reconnected with Sophia.

She was an old childhood friend, the daughter of Filipino immigrants who had studied with me at a private international school.

At the time, she was always very reserved about her Christian faith, probably for fear of repercussions.

We drifted apart over time, but I knew she still lived in Riad, working as a nurse in a hospital.

One day, out of the blue, I mustered the courage and sent her a message asking if she would like to grab a coffee.

I used neutral words, giving no hints.

She responded with enthusiasm and we arranged to meet at a cafe inside one of the residential compounds for foreigners.

One of the few places where a woman like me could enter alone without raising suspicion.

I remember the nervousness on the way.

My hands were sweating.

My heart was pounding in my neck.

I brought my driver as always, but asked him to drop me off and return in 2 hours.

When I walked into the cafe and saw Sophia sitting there smiling with that calm look, it was like finding a piece of peace in the middle of a hurricane.

In the first few minutes, we talked about pleasantries, family, work, the past.

But I couldn’t wait long.

In a low voice and with a racing heart, I said I needed her help with something I couldn’t explain.

She became serious, her eyes filled with caution.

She looked discreetly around and leaned forward.

It was there at that small table with the smell of coffee and vanilla cake in the air that I told her about the dream.

I told her about the man in white, about the name he called me, about the scars on his hands.

She didn’t react with surprise.

On the contrary, her eyes welled up with tears.

She squeezed my hand across the table and said something I will never forget.

He called you and he loves you.

I started to cry, to cry for real, as if something inside me had finally broken and been freed at the same time.

Sophia told me that what I was experiencing was real, that many people had similar testimonies and that Jesus was inviting me to know him for real.

At that moment, I had no more doubts.

It was him.

Sophia began to disciple me discreetly.

We never used religious words in messages, always communicating with codes.

She gave me the contact of a woman named Ela, a Saudi who had also found Jesus and was part of a secret church.

That seemed scary at first.

A church here in Riad, but it was real.

She invited me to a meeting.

The location changed every week precisely for safety.

On the agreed day, I lied to my mother that I was going to visit a cousin on the other side of the city.

I wore a more discreet abaya and asked the driver to drop me off at a shopping mall as usual.

From there, one of the girls from the church picked me up.

I trembled the whole way, my heart racing, thinking that at any moment someone would stop us.

When we arrived at the simple apartment on the third floor of an old building, I heard soft music coming from inside.

It wasn’t loud.

They were afraid of attracting attention.

But it made me shiver.

It was as if that melody was embracing me even before I entered.

Inside, I saw people of various nationalities.

Filipino workers, Indian women, and Ethiopian women and three Saudis like me.

Everyone was smiling, their eyes shining as if they carried something that no one could take from them.

They offered me tea.

An old man welcomed me with tears in his eyes.

He said, “You are brave, daughter.

You made it.

” I couldn’t stop looking around.

There was nothing luxurious there.

No beautiful furniture, no expensive perfumes, no designer clothes.

But the atmosphere was filled with something I had never felt at home.

Freedom.

They sang together softly, but with an intensity that tore through me.

It wasn’t just music.

It was surrender.

It was living faith.

It was love for someone real.

I didn’t sing that day.

I just cried.

Cried listening to those low, true voices saying that Jesus was everything to them.

I didn’t know that was possible.

I didn’t know that kind of faith existed.

After that meeting with Sophia, my mind didn’t rest.

She told me very carefully that there was a secret group of Christians in Riad.

A small group of people, mostly foreigners, who met in discrete homes to pray, read the Bible, and sing softly so as not to draw attention.

She said there were also some Saudis in the group.

That shocked me.

I had been raised hearing that there wasn’t a single Saudi Christian citizen.

That anyone who tried to abandon Islam was killed or disappeared.

But there before me was someone saying the opposite.

And she wasn’t just saying it, she was living it.

At the end of the meeting, before we said goodbye, she discreetly handed me a small book.

It was a New Testament in Arabic, the size of my palm.

She told me to hide it very carefully that it could cost me my life.

I hid it as someone guards a treasure and at the same time a bomb.

I went back home with a racing heart but with the feeling that for the first time I knew where I was going.

In the following days, every minute alone was an opportunity to connect with what I couldn’t even name correctly.

I read that small book hidden in the closet, lying between shoe boxes and dresses.

I began to pray in a new way.

I spoke to Jesus in silence in Arabic with simple words as if he were there in the room with me.

And in a way I can’t explain, I felt that he truly was.

At night, I dreamed of the garden.

Sometimes I saw flashes of that face full of light.

Sometimes I woke up with a peace I had never felt before.

But living that faith in secret was a prison.

I had found freedom inside, but on the outside I continued to live in fear.

I started avoiding collective prayers at home, making excuses not to go to the mosque.

And my mother began to notice.

She asked if I was sick.

She said I was too quiet, that my skin was pale, that my eyes looked sad.

I only replied with smiles and hugs.

But the truth is that I was about to explode inside.

A month after that first meeting with Sophia, she took me to a meeting of the secret church for the first time.

I remember every second of that day.

It was a Friday afternoon, a holy day for Muslims, and I told my family that I was going to visit my cousin Hanan in one of the residential compounds.

My driver dropped me off at a shopping mall as always.

But there, hidden behind one of the service exits, Sophia was waiting for me with another car, we drove in silence through the streets of Riad.

I was trembling inside.

I was sure that any police car could stop us.

When we arrived at the building, a small residential complex where foreign workers lived, we went up to the top floor by a narrow staircase.

The apartment was simple.

carpet on the floor, noisy fans, the smell of Indian food in the air.

But what disarmed me was the sound, voices, low, soft, but full of strength.

They were singing.

Singing to Jesus in that place without any luxury.

I felt something I never felt even in the most beautiful palaces of my childhood.

Freedom.

I sat in a corner next to Sophia and watched.

They sang in several languages.

English, Tagalog, Arabic, even Amharic.

The music was simple.

There were no instruments, no microphone, nothing.

But the presence of God in that place was palpable.

An Ethiopian woman offered me tea and smiled with such tenderness that I felt like crying.

A Filipino man gave a short sermon reading a passage from the Gospel of Matthew.

I don’t remember everything he said, but I remember the feeling.

It was as if those words had been written just for me.

In the end, everyone prayed for me.

Some didn’t even know my real name.

I had used another name for safety.

But when they started asking God to protect me, to strengthen me, to open a path where there was none, I broke down.

No one had ever prayed for me like that.

And there on that simple floor with my knees touching the carpet and my face covered in tears, I finally understood I no longer belonged to the world where I was born.

I belonged to him.

In the following months, I continued to attend the secret church, always with great care.

We never used the same location twice in a row.

Sometimes it was at a Filipino nurse’s house, other times in the cramped room of an Indian worker.

We had codes for everything.

If someone knocked on the door incorrectly, the meeting was immediately terminated.

Everyone knew the risk they were running.

But even so, no one failed to go.

It was as if that faith propelled us to continue.

Even in the face of fear, a Saudi woman who was part of the group, approached me and became like an older sister.

She had already lost everything when she converted.

Her husband abandoned her.

Her family excluded her and her children were taken from her.

I asked her how she managed to continue.

She replied with tearfilled but firm eyes.

Jesus is worth more than anything I’ve lost.

That struck me.

I looked at her and saw strength.

A strength that didn’t come from blood, position, or money, but from faith.

Meanwhile, at home, my situation worsened.

My mother began to observe me more rigidly.

My brothers asked questions, wanting to know why I was always going out alone.

Once my older brother tried to unlock my phone.

He barely missed seeing the Bible app.

I started living in a constant state of alert.

I slept with a racing heart.

I began to hide the New Testament in different places every week.

inside a makeup box, behind fashion books, even inside a pillow I sewed with a hidden zipper.

Every small oversight could mean the end.

Even so, I remained firm.

It was as if I was divided into two worlds.

The world where I was Naen Aled, the prince’s daughter, and the world where I was just Naen, the daughter of God.

And no matter how much the first offered me comfort and security, the second was where I finally felt alive.

The final straw happened on a Saturday afternoon.

I was in the palace library alone reading secretly on my phone with the book of John open in the disguised app.

I was so concentrated that I didn’t hear my sister Miriam enter.

She approached from behind and when I realized it, it was too late.

She asked me what I was reading.

I said it was just a philosophy article, but she was suspicious.

She sat down next to me, staring.

I tried to stay calm, to disguise it.

But those who live hiding the truth always know when the time comes when they can no longer run.

That night, something in me said it was time to tell her.

I loved my sister.

She was my closest friend inside that house.

and I thought naively that maybe maybe she could understand.

I waited until everyone was asleep and called her to my room.

I closed the door carefully.

My knees were trembling.

She sat on the bed suspicious.

And then I started to speak.

I didn’t make a speech.

I didn’t try to explain theology.

I just told her what happened to me.

I told her about the dream.

I told her about the man in white.

I told her he called me beloved daughter.

I told her about the peace I felt, the love I can’t describe.

I told her I had started reading the Bible, that I had met people who believed in Jesus, and that now I believed too.

I told her everything, and I waited.

Miam remained silent for a few seconds.

Her face slowly changed.

First confusion, then fear.

A lot of fear.

She got up from the bed slowly as if she were facing something dangerous.

She asked if it was a joke.

I said no.

She started to cry.

She said I was sick, that I must be being manipulated, that this was the work of a jin, an evil spirit.

I tried to hold her hand, but she pulled away as if I were contagious.

I need to tell Dad, she said.

I begged, I cried.

I asked her to wait, to give me time, to pray with me, even if it was in silence.

But she ran out of the room.

And at that moment, I knew what was coming would be the end of my old life.

The following minutes were the longest of my life.

I was alone in the room, sitting on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to figure out what to do.

Outside, the palace remained silent, but I knew that was just the interval between the explosion and the destruction.

When I heard my father’s voice echoing through the corridors, not shouting, but speaking with that cold firmness he only used when something very serious happened, my body froze.

A few minutes later, heavy footsteps came up the stairs.

Many I got up slowly and stood still in the center of the room.

The door was opened forcefully.

My father entered first, followed by my older brothers and two uncles.

No one said anything for a few seconds.

They surrounded me as if I were a criminal.

My father, with eyes red from anger and shame, asked directly, “Is it true? Have you become an apostate?” I could have lied.

Said Miam was confused.

Said it was just curiosity.

But at that moment, I remembered Jesus’s face in my dream.

I remembered the peace and I couldn’t deny it.

I just shook my head.

Yes.

The first reaction was a slap so strong it knocked me to the floor.

I heard my mother screaming downstairs.

My brothers stared at me with contempt.

My uncles argued among themselves whether I should be handed over to the religious authorities or hidden to treat my mind.

One of them said I needed to be exercised.

Another shouted that I had brought shame to the entire family lineage.

I sat on the floor, my mouth bleeding and my face burning.

But inside, inside, I felt a strength that didn’t come from me.

I prayed in silence non-stop.

Jesus, stay with me.

Don’t let me deny you.

Help me endure.

And he stayed.

He was there.

I could feel it.

It was as if he were standing beside me, invisible, but real.

The pain was strong.

The fear was indescribable.

But I didn’t feel alone.

After hours of interrogation, my father delivered the sentence.

I would have two days to disappear, two days to vanish from the country.

The family name, the history.

If I didn’t leave, he himself would hand me over to the religious police.

I was dragged back to the room and locked from the outside.

No title, no royal blood would protect me now, but I still had Jesus.

And that was everything.

That night, lying on the floor of my room with my face swollen and my soul torn, I thought about everything I was leaving behind.

My name, my inheritance, my blood, my house, my sisters, my mother.

Every detail of my life was being ripped away.

And yet, there was a strange peace in the midst of it all.

It was as if I was in the center of a storm.

But right there, in the middle, there was a silent space where God was holding my hand.

I took my phone, hidden under the carpet, and sent a message to Sophia.

They know I have 48 hours.

The answer came in less than a minute.

She had already spoken to the group’s pastor.

They would activate contacts with a Christian organization that helped persecuted converts escape.

It would be risky, but possible.

Sophia assured me, “We will get you out of there.

” I read that message with tears in my eyes.

Not because of the pain, but because I knew I wasn’t alone.

God was already moving everything.

He already knew this was going to happen.

And he had already prepared a way out.

The next day, my mother appeared outside the door.

She didn’t open it.

She just sat on the other side and cried.

Cried like a child.

She said she loved me, but she couldn’t protect me.

She said I was killing her inside.

That I could still turn back, pretend none of this happened.

I leaned my forehead against the wood and said I loved her too.

That I would never stop being her daughter, but that now I had known something that was bigger than everything.

She didn’t answer.

She just cried.

Before leaving, she slid an envelope under the door.

Inside was money, cash notes carefully folded, and a small handwritten note.

Take this.

May God have mercy on you.

I held that envelope for hours.

It was all she could do for me, and even without understanding, she chose to love.

It was the last time I heard my mother’s voice.

In the early hours of the second day, I received the message with the final instructions.

A Christian woman, an employee of a foreign family in the same neighborhood, would create a diversion at the service entrance of the compound.

I would have exactly 3 minutes to leave on foot with a small backpack skirting the north side of the wall where the camera had been broken for months.

A car would be waiting for me two blocks away.

If I missed that time, the chance of being caught would greatly increase.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I spent hours kneeling on the floor, praying softly, trembling but firm.

It was the end of one life and the beginning of another.

At 6:50 in the morning, the palace was still asleep.

The sun was beginning to gild the tall windows of the main hall.

I put on simple clothes, hid the Bible on the side of the backpack, and placed the veil over my hair.

Before leaving, I looked at my room one last time.

At the bed where I had the dream, at the books, perfumes, and dresses that, until days ago, defined who I was.

None of that mattered anymore.

I opened the door slowly.

The corridor was empty.

I went down the stairs with my heart in my throat.

I passed through the back of the kitchen where the servants were starting to prepare breakfast.

One of them saw me, but didn’t say anything.

Maybe he understood.

Maybe he sympathized.

I reached the side exit of the wall and at the exact moment I arrived, I saw the distraction happen.

The gardening cart knocked over a huge vase and two guards ran to help.

It was the opening.

I walked with firm steps without looking around.

When I turned the corner, the car was already waiting for me with the back door open.

I got in without saying anything.

The driver, a calm-faced young Indian man, simply nodded.

We didn’t exchange a word.

During the journey, I looked out the window.

The Riad sky was clear.

The streets looked like any other morning, but inside me, everything was different.

It was as if I was seeing that place for the last time.

And maybe I was.

The car dropped me off at a simple house in a remote neighborhood.

There, an elderly Christian woman welcomed me with tears in her eyes.

It was as if she had known me for years.

She hugged me tightly and took me to a small room with a mattress on the floor, a cross on the wall, and a window overlooking a silent courtyard.

For the first time in my entire life, I felt safe.

For the first time, I wasn’t a princess, wasn’t the king’s daughter, wasn’t a prisoner of luxury or fear.

I was just a daughter, daughter of the father who had called me.

I spent the following days in silence, fasting, and prayer.

The Bible never left my hands.

Every verse was like a firm rock under my feet.

I discovered that I was not alone.

There were others like me, young people, women, even Imam’s children who had also heard the voice, who had also fled, who were also being reborn.

And there in that house of a few square meters with white walls and the smell of fresh bread, I experienced a peace that not all the treasures of Arabia could buy.

But the peace didn’t last long.

Someone denounced us.

On a stuffy night, while we were studying the Gospel of John, we heard the dry knock on the door.

It was the religious police.

We were taken one by one, handcuffed, silenced.

In the interrogation, they shouted my real name.

They said they knew who I was, that I had shamed my lineage.

They offered me the chance to deny everything.

All it took was one sentence.

I do not believe that Jesus is God.

That’s all it took to let me go.

But I couldn’t.

My heart was burning.

My lips were scorching.

And when I opened my mouth, it was the spirit who spoke for me.

I said, “Jesus found me in my own palace.

He lives.

He is the son of the living God.

” After that came the screams, the shoving, the dark silence of a cold cell.

I stayed there for weeks, alone, but never abandoned.

It was in that cell, surrounded by damp walls and the distant sound of chains, that I had the clearest vision of my entire life.

There was no light, no bed, no mirror.

But I saw myself.

I saw who I was before.

A woman who served fear, tradition, and pride.

And I saw who I had become.

A redeemed daughter washed by the blood of a lamb who doesn’t demand castles, but gives up his own throne for love.

One morning when my soul was oscillating between despair and faith, I heard that voice again, soft, firm, familiar.

He said, “Even if your family forgets you, I will never leave you.

” I cried like a child.

And on that stone floor, I prayed for my mother, for my father, for all those who still live under the veil of lies.

I prayed that one day the light that reached me would touch them too.

I was freed weeks later due to international pressure.

They say a human rights organization intervened.

But I know the truth.

It was Jesus.

He moved heavens, hearts and borders.

Today I live as an exile.

I have no homeland, no citizenship.

I cannot use my real name.

But I have something that not even a throne could give me.

The certainty of eternal life.

Every night before falling asleep, I repeat a phrase that he himself taught me.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 5:10.

My earthly name has been erased, but my true name is written on the palms of God’s hands, and no one can ever erase that.

Nadine’s story showed us that true faith can flourish even in the darkest places.

She lost everything.

Title, family, freedom.

But she found what many spend their entire lives searching for, a real connection with Jesus Christ.

Her testimony is a powerful reminder that no sacrifice is greater than the reward of living for the truth.

And now I want to hear from you.

What touched you the most in this story? Have you ever experienced something similar or know someone who faced persecution because of their faith? Share with us here in the comments.

This can inspire other people not to give up.

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