My name is Shafa.

I was 19 years old when this happened on April 15th.

That was the day my own father buried me alive for reading the Bible.

But death couldn’t hold me because Jesus had other plans for my life.

Growing up in our small Saudi town, I never questioned the rigid structure of my life.

Every day was mapped out by Islamic law.

every prior time observed, every meal prepared according to tradition.

My father was a respected man in our community known for his strict adherence to Wahhabi’s teachings.

He served on the local religious council and was often consulted by neighbors on matters of faith and family honor.

Our household reflected his unwavering devotion to what he believed was the pure form of Islam.

My mother lived in his shadow, speaking only when spoken to, her days consumed with managing our home and ensuring we children brought no shame to the family name.

My older brother had already begun following in father’s footsteps, memorizing the Quran and preparing for his own role as a religious authority.

As the only daughter, my path was predetermined.

Marriage to a suitable man chosen by my father, children, and a lifetime of submission.

But something inside me had always been different.

Even as a child, I asked questions that made the adults uncomfortable.

Why did Allah seem so angry in the verses father recited? Why were women considered less valuable than men? Why did our faith require so much fear instead of love? These questions remain unspoken, buried deep in my heart because I knew the consequences of doubt.

Everything changed when I was 17 and encountered Miriam, a Christian expatriate worker who cleaned houses in our neighborhood.

She worked for wealthy families who could afford foreign help and occasionally my mother would hire her when we hosted large gatherings.

Miriam was different from any woman I had ever met.

She carried herself with a quiet confidence and there was something in her eyes that I had never seen before.

It was peace.

One afternoon while mother was napping and Miriam was cleaning our kitchen, I found the courage to approach her.

We spoke in broken Arabic mixed with a little English I had learned and she told me about her faith in Jesus Christ.

She described a God who loved unconditionally, who sent his son to die for humanity since, who wanted a personal relationship with each person.

This was completely foreign to everything I had been taught about Allah.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever been drawn to something you knew was dangerous? That is exactly what happened to me when Miriam secretly gave me a small Arabic Bible.

She pressed it into my hands and whispered that I should hide it well, that reading it could change my life forever.

I knew she was right about the danger.

In our household, possessing a Bible was not just forbidden.

It was considered an act of apostasy punishable by death.

I hid the Bible in a hollowedout space behind my bedroom wall.

A small cavity I had discovered years earlier while playing.

Every night after the family slept, I would retrieve it and read with the faint light of my phone.

The words on those pages were unlike anything in the Quran.

Instead of commands and threats, I found stories of compassion and forgiveness.

Instead of a distant wrathful deity, I discovered a God who called himself father and who loved me specifically and personally.

The gospel of John became my favorite.

When I read that God so loved the world that he gave his only son that whoever believes in him would not perish but have eternal life.

Something deep in my soul awakened.

The Jesus described in these pages was gentle with women, kind to children, merciful to sinners.

He spoke of love not fear.

He offered hope not condemnation.

Night after night I devoured these words.

I read about Jesus healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and defending the vulnerable.

I learned about his death on the cross, not as a defeat, but as the ultimate sacrifice for sin.

Most amazing of all, I read about his resurrection, his victory over death itself.

This Jesus was alive, not merely a prophet from the past.

My secret reading began to change how I saw everything around me.

When father spoke harshly to mother, I remembered Jesus’ tenderness toward Mary and Martha.

When he quoted verses about women’s inferiority, I thought of how Jesus honored the women who followed him.

The contrast between the harsh religion of my upbringing and the loving grace of Christianity became impossible to ignore.

I started praying to Jesus tentatively at first.

Then with growing confidence, I would whisper his name in my heart during the required Islamic prayers.

Feeling guilty but unable to stop.

The peace that filled me during these secret conversations was unlike anything I had experienced during years of ritualistic worship to Allah.

The danger of discovery grew with each passing day.

I had to be incredibly careful about when and where I read.

Several times my brother nearly caught me and once my mother entered my room unexpectedly while I was quickly shoving the Bible back into its hiding place.

My heart pounded so violently I was certain she could hear it.

But I could not stop reading.

The words of Jesus had become like water to someone dying of thirst.

I memorized entire passages, particularly the promises about eternal life and God’s unfailing love.

These verses sustain me through the increasingly suffocating atmosphere of our home.

As father grew more rigid in his enforcement of Islamic law, I knew I was walking a dangerous path.

every day brought the risk of exposure and I understood exactly what that would mean.

In our community, apostasy was not treated lightly.

Owner killings while officially discouraged by the government still occurred when families felt their reputation was at stake.

But the truth I had discovered in that small Bible was worth any risk.

The gospel had awakened something in my heart that could never be silenced again.

I was no longer the same person who had blindly accepted everything I was told.

I had tasted freedom and there was no going back to slavery.

April 15th, 2018 started like any other day during Ramadan.

The pre-dawn meal had been eaten in silence, and we had begun our daily fast as the cul to bra echoed across our town.

I had been especially careful that morning, making sure the Bible was securely hidden before joining my family for our morning prayers.

The weight of my secret felt heavier during the holy month when father’s attention to our spiritual conduct intensified.

After the morning prayer, I retreated to my room to rest before the afternoon heat became unbearable.

This was normally my safest time to read when mother was preparing the evening meal and father was at the mosque for extended prayers and Quran study.

I retrieved my precious Bible from its hiding place and opened to the book of Psalms where David’s words about God’s protection had become my daily comfort.

I was so absorbed in reading Psalm 23 about walking through the valley of the shadow of death that I did not hear father’s footsteps in the hallway.

Our house was old and the floors usually creaked, giving me warning when someone approached my room.

But that morning, perhaps because I was so focused on the words before me, I missed the signals that had kept me safe for months.

The door burst open without warning.

Father stood in the doorway.

His face a mask of confusion that quickly transformed into pure rage as his eyes fell upon the Bible in my hands.

Time seemed frozen as we stared at each other across my small bedroom.

The Arabic text was clearly visible and there was no way to hide what I had been doing.

Father’s voice, when it finally came, was barely controlled.

He spoke my name like a curse, demanding to know what I was holding.

My hands trembled so violently I could barely speak, but I managed to whisper that it was just a book.

His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, and I knew that my weak explanation would not satisfy him.

He snatched the Bible from my hands with such force that several pages tore.

As he examined it, his face grew darker with each passing second.

He recognized immediately what it was, and his knowledge of Arabic allowed him to read some of the verses I had been studying.

The fury that consumed him in that moment was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, even from a man known for his harsh temperament.

Mother appeared in the doorway, drawn by the commotion, and the look of terror on her face told me she understood immediately what had happened, she began pleading with father to lower his voice.

Worried that the neighbors might hear, but her words only seemed to enrage him further.

The shame of having a daughter who possessed a Bible was bad enough, but having the community discover it would destroy our family’s reputation completely.

My older brother arrived moments later, and I watched his expression change from curiosity to shock to something that looked like grief.

He had always been protective of me even while adhering to father’s strict expectations and I could see the internal conflict playing out across his face.

He wanted to defend me but he also understood the gravity of what I had done according to our faith and culture.

Father began interrogating me with questions that felt like physical blows.

Where had I gotten this book? How long had I been reading it? Had I spoken to anyone about its contents? Had I shared these blasphemous ideas with others? Each question was delivered with increasing intensity, and I found myself unable to answer coherently through my tears and terror.

When I finally admitted that I had been reading the Bible for months, father’s rage reached a level that frightened even my mother and brother.

He began reciting verses from the Quran about the punishment for apostasy.

His voice growing louder and more passionate with each word.

He spoke about family honor, about religious duty, about the shame I had brought upon our household and our community.

The interrogation continued for what felt like ours.

Father demanded to know if I believed what I had read, if I had rejected Islam in favor of Christianity.

My silence was answer enough.

And I watched something die in his eyes as he realized that his daughter had become what he considered the enemy of everything he held sacred.

Mother tried repeatedly to intervene, suggesting that perhaps I had only been curious that maybe I could be corrected through additional religious instruction.

But father dismissed her attempts at mediation with contempt.

This was not a matter of curiosity or confusion in his mind.

This was betrayal of the highest order and it required the most serious response.

My brother made one brave attempt to suggest that they should consult with other religious authorities before taking any drastic action.

But father’s response made it clear that he viewed this as a family matter that required immediate resolution.

He had spent years building his reputation as a man of uncompromising faith and having a Christian daughter threatened to destroy everything he had worked to achieve.

As the afternoon wore on, extended family members began arriving at our house.

father had called his brothers and his father explaining the situation and seeking their counsel.

But it quickly became apparent that this consultation was merely a formality.

Father had already decided what needed to be done and he was looking for support rather than advice.

The family council that formed in our living room was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

These men who had known me since birth, who had celebrated my birthdays and achievements, now looked at me as if I were a stranger.

The discussion centered not on how to help me or bring me back to Islam, but on how to preserve the family’s honor in light of my apostasy.

Religious justification flowed freely as they quoted verses and cited Islamic law.

Father spoke passionately about his duty as a Muslim man to protect his family from corruption even when the corruption came from within.

The word kafir was used repeatedly marking me as an unbeliever worthy only of contempt.

As evening approached and the call to prayer echoed across our town, father announced his decision.

The shame I had brought upon our family required the ultimate punishment.

I would be taken to a remote location and buried alive left to face Allah’s judgment for my betrayal of Islam.

The sentence was delivered with the same tune he may use to discuss the weather as if my faith had become a simple matter of religious duty rather than the destruction of his own daughter’s life.

The hours between father’s pronouncement and our departure felt both eternal and impossibly brief.

I was confined to my room while the men made the preparations, but I could hear their voices through the thin walls as they discussed the logistics of my punishment.

Mother was forbidden from speaking to me, though I caught glimpses of her tear street face as she passed by my doorway.

My brother stood guard, ensuring I could not escape.

But I saw the anguish in his eyes every time our gazes met.

As darkness fell, father entered my room for the final time.

He carried rope and a cloth bag, his face set in grim determination.

He informed me that we would be traveling to a location far from town where the desert would claim me as Allah intended.

There would be no final meal, no opportunity for last words to my family.

In his mind, I had already ceased to be his daughter the moment he discovered the Bible in my hands.

The drive into the desert took nearly 2 hours.

I sat in the backseat of father’s old pickup truck, my hands bound, watching familiar landmarks disappear into the darkness behind us.

My brother sat beside me staring straight ahead while father drove in absolute silence.

The only sounds were the engine’s rumble and the occasion of prayer that father muttered under his breath asking Allah to forgive him for what he was about to do and to accept this sacrifice as evidence of his faithfulness.

When we finally stopped, we were surrounded by nothing but sand and rocks stretching endlessly in every direction.

Father had chosen this location carefully, somewhere remote enough that my body would never be found, where my disappearance would remain a family secret.

The headlights illuminated a small area where the ground was slightly softer, easier to dig.

This was to be my grave.

Father and my brother began digging while I sat in the truck, watching through the windshield as they prepared the place where I would die.

The hole they created was not deep, perhaps 3 ft at most, but it was long enough and wide enough for my body.

Father worked with methodical precision as if he were performing any ordinary task rather than preparing to bury his own child alive.

When the grav was ready, father opened the truck door and pulled me out.

My legs could barely support me as terror overwhelmed every other sensation.

This was really happening.

My own father, the man who had taught me to walk and read and pray, was about to end my life because I had discovered a love greater than the fear that had always controlled our household.

Father spoke then his final words to me delivered with cold religious conviction.

He declared that I had brought the dishonor to our family name and shame to the Islamic faith.

He stated that what he was doing was not murder but justice that Allah would reward him for protecting the purity of his household from corruption.

He said that if I had remained a faithful Muslim daughter, this would never have been necessary.

But my choice to embrace Christianity had forced his hand.

My brother stood silently beside the grave, tears streaming down his face.

But he made no move to stop what was happening.

The weight of family loyalty and religious duty was too strong for him to overcome.

Even as he watched his sister being prepared for execution, I wanted to cry out to him to beg him to intervene.

But the cloth gag in my mouth prevented any words from escaping.

Father pushed me toward the shallow grave, and I stumbled forward on trembling legs.

The hole looked impossibly small and terrifyingly deep from where I stood.

This would be my final resting place.

This patch of desert sound far from anyone who might hear my cries.

As I looked down into the dark space, every verse I had read about God’s protection seemed like a cruel joke.

They forced me to lie down in the grave, and immediately the walls of sun felt like they were closing in around me.

The space was so narrow that my shoulders touched both sides.

And when I looked up, the opening seemed impossibly far away, even though I knew it was only a few feet above my face.

Father began the process of covering me, starting with my feet and working his way upward.

The first handfuls of sand were almost gentle, but as more dirt accumulated, the weight became crushing.

With each shovelful, breathing became more difficult, and my panic intensified.

The sun worked its way into my mouth.

Despite the gag and the taste of earth filled my senses, my nose became clogged with dust, forcing me to struggle for every breath through my mouth.

As the burial continued, father recited verses from the Quran about divine justice and the punishment of unbelievers.

His voice grew more distant as more earth covered my body.

But I could still hear his prayers asking Allah to accept this sacrifice.

The ritual nature of his words made the horror even more surreal as if my death were simply another act of worship rather than the murder of his own daughter.

When the sand reached my chest, the pressure became almost unbearable.

Each breath required tremendous effort and I could feel my strength ebbing away with every passing moment.

The darkness was complete now with only a small opening above my face allowing any air to reach me.

I could hear father and my brother working to fill in the final space.

the shovels scraping against the hard ground as they completed my burial.

Look inside your own heart right now and try to imagine that absolute helplessness.

Picture yourself trapped in a space so small you cannot move, buried alive by the people who should love you most, facing certain death in the most terrifying way possible.

That was my reality.

As the last shovel falls of sand fell across my face and the opening above me disappeared completely, the silence that followed was more frightening than anything that had come before.

I was alone in complete darkness, buried alive in the desert, with only minutes of our remaining before suffocation would claim my life.

The weight of the earth pressed down on every part of my body, and I realized with crystal clarity that there was no human way for me to escape this grave that my own father had prepared.

In that suffocating darkness, with sand pressing against every inch of my body and my lungs screaming for air, I begin to pray with a desperation I had never known existed.

At first, my prayers were directed to Allah, begging for mercy or pleading for rescue, promising to return to Islam if only he would save me from this horrible death.

But as the minutes passed and no divine intervention came, my prayers began to change.

The verses I had memorized from the Bible started flowing through my mind like water breaking through a dam.

I remember Jesus’s words about calling upon his name, about how he would never leave or forsake those who belonged to him.

In my dying moments, I found myself crying out to Jesus Christ, the man whose teachings had led me to this grave, but whose love had transformed my heart completely.

Jesus, I whispered into the darkness, my voice barely audible through the sand that filled my mouth.

If you are real, if you truly love me, as the Bible says, please help me.

I am dying here because I believed in you.

Do not let my faith be in vain.

The words felt strange on my lips.

this direct conversation with God so different from the formal prayers of my Islamic upbringing.

But they also felt more honest than any prayer I had ever uttered.

As I continued to call upon Jesus’s name, something extraordinary began to happen.

A warmth started spreading through my body, beginning in my chest and radiating outward to my arms and legs.

This was not the fevered heat of suffocation, but something else entirely.

A gentle warmth that seemed to push back against the crushed weight of the sun above me.

The panic that had consumed me began to subside, replaced by a piece that made no logical sense given my circumstances.

Then I saw the light.

It started as a faint glow above my face, barely visible through the layers of sand that covered me.

At first, I thought my oxygen deprived brain was creating hallucinations, but the lie grew stronger and more focused with each passing moment.

It was not the harsh glare of electric lighting, but something softer and more beautiful, like the gentle radiance of dawn breaking across the desert horizon.

The light seemed to be calling to me, inviting me upward, and I felt an irresistible urge to reach toward it.

But my arms were pinned beneath tons of sand, and logic told me that movement was impossible.

That was when the true miracle began.

Strength flowed into my muscles from some supernatural source.

Power that had nothing to do with my own physical capabilities.

My arms, which should have been crushed and immobilized, began to push against the sand above me.

What happened next defies every law of physics and human understanding.

The sand that had been packed so tightly around my body began to shift and move as if it were liquid rather than solid earth.

My hands broke through the surface first, emerging into the cool na, followed by my arms as I literally pushed my way up through my own grave.

The sun seemed to part before me, creating a pathway when none should have existed.

As more of my body emerged, I could hear something that filled my heart with wonder.

It was singing the most beautiful music I had ever experienced, though I could not identify the source or even the language being used.

The voices seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the desert air with melodies of praise and worship.

Later, I would recognize these as the songs of angels.

But in that moment, I only knew that I was surrounded by a love more powerful than death itself.

My head broke through the surface, and I gasped the sweet desert air into my lungs.

The stars above me seemed brighter than I had ever seen them, and the moon appeared to be shining directly down on the spot where I lay.

As I appulled the rest of my body from the grave, sand cascading off me like water, I realized that I was not alone in the desert.

A presence stood nearby, though I could not make out clear features in the supernatural light that surrounded us both.

The figure approached me as I struggled to stand on a trembling legs.

When he spoke, his voice was unlike anything I had ever heard.

Gentle yet commanding, filled with infinite compassion and unmistakable authority.

Shifa, he said, using my name with such tenderness that tears immediately began streaming down my face.

I have heard your prayers and I have come to set you free.

I knew immediately who this was, though my mind struggled to process the reality of what I was experiencing.

This was Jesus Christ.

The same Jesus whose words in the Bible had captured my heart and led me to this moment.

He was standing before me in the desert, having just raised me from the dead, speaking my name with the love of a father who had never stopped watching over me.

Jesus reached out his hand to help me stand fully upright.

And the moment his fingers touched mine, every trace of pain and trauma from my burial disappeared completely.

My body, which should have been broken and damaged from the ordeal, felt stronger and more alive than ever before.

My lungs, which had been filled with sand and starved of oxygen, now drew breath with perfect ease.

It was as if the burial had never happened, except for the evidence of the empty grave at my feet.

Do not be afraid, Jesus continued, his voice filling the night air with authority and peace.

Your father buried you because of your faith in me.

But death has no power over those who belong to me.

I died and rose again so that you might have eternal life.

And today you have experienced a small taste of the resurrection power that awaits all who call upon my name.

So I am asking you as someone who literally rose from the grave through the power of Jesus Christ, do you believe in miracles? Can you accept that the same God who spoke the universe into existence might choose to intervene in the life of one young woman buried alive in the Saudi desert? Because I am here to tell you that miracles are not just stories from ancient times.

They are present realities for those who have the faith to believe.

As I stood in that desert face to face with my savior, I understood for the first time what it truly meant to be born again.

I had died to my old life and been raised to walk in newness of life through Christ.

The grave could not hold me because Jesus had already conquered death on my behalf.

and his victory had become my victory in the most literal sense possible.

Jesus walked with me through the desert that night, his presence providing supernatural strength for the long journey back to civilization.

As we traveled, he spoke to me about my future, explaining that my old life was truly over and that I would need courage for the difficult path ahead.

He warned me that my family’s rejection would be complete and that the persecution I had already experienced was only the beginning of what I would face as his follower in this part of the world.

When we reached the outskirts of my town, Jesus stopped and turned to face me one final time.

His eyes held such compassion and understanding that I felt he could see every fear and doubt in my heart.

He reminded me that he would never leave me or forsake me.

That even when I could not see him, he would be working on my behalf.

Then as dawn began to break across the horizon, he was gone, leaving me to face whatever lay ahead with only his promises to sustain me.

I walked through the empty streets as the first call to pra echoed across our town.

My appearance shocking the few early risers who recognized me.

Word of my return spread quickly, and by the time I reached our house, a crowd had already gathered.

The looks on their faces ranged from confusion to fear to outright hostility as they stared at the young woman who should have been dead, buried in the desert by her own father.

father emerged from our house like a man who had seen a ghost.

His face pale and his hands trembling as he stared at me in disbelief.

The confidence and religious certainty that had characterized his decision to bury me alive was gone, replaced her by something that looked like terror.

He began backing away from me as if I carried some contagious disease.

His voice cracking as he demanded to know how I had escaped my grave.

I told him simply that Jesus Christ had raised me from the dead, that the God I now served was more powerful than death itself.

These words had the gifac of a physical blow on father and he staggered backward into the arms of his brothers who had come running when news of my return reached them.

The family council that had supported his decision to execute me now stood frozen in shock unable to comprehend how their carefully planned solution have failed so completely.

Mother appeared in the doorway and when she saw me standing alive before our house, she collapsed to her knees in a mixture of relief and terror.

She wanted to run to me.

I could see it in her eyes.

But father’s presence and the watching crowd held her back.

The war between her maternal love and her religious duty played out across her face as she struggled to understand what my survival meant for our family’s future.

My older brother pushed through the crowd and stood before me.

His eyes searched my face for some explanation of what had happened in the desert.

When I told him about my encounter with Jesus, about how Christ himself had lifted me from the grave, I watched him wrestle with the implications of what I was claiming.

Part of him wanted to believe I could tell, but the weight of his Islamic upbringing and loyalty to father made acceptance impossible.

The local religious leader arrived within the hour, summoned by father to help interpret this unprecedented situation.

He examined me carefully, looking for evidence of deception or trickery, but found none.

I bore no marks from my burial, showed no signs of the trauma that should have accompanied being buried alive.

In fact, I appeared healthier and more vibrant than I had ever been, as if the resurrection power of Christ had not only restored my life, but enhanced it beyond its previous limitations.

When pressed to explain my survival, the religious leader suggested various natural explanations.

Perhaps the grave had not been deep enough.

Perhaps I had found an air pocket.

Perhaps father and my brother had not actually completed the burial process.

But these explanations satisfied no one, especially since both father and my brother insisted that they had buried me completely and securely before leaving me to die in the desert.

As the die progressed, father’s initial shock transformed into renewed anger and determination.

If his first attempt to rid the family of my apostasy had failed, he would simply have to try again.

He declared publicly that my survival was evidence of demonic intervention rather than divine miracle.

That Satan himself had saved me to continue spreading corruption through the community.

This interpretation allowed him to maintain his religious worldview while justifying his continued persecution of me.

The crowd’s mood grew increasingly hostile as father’s narrative took hold.

Neighbors who had known me since childhood now looked at me with suspicion and fear, wondering what dark powers had enabled my escape from certain death.

The fact that I openly proclaimed Jesus Christ as my savior and spoke boldly about his resurrection power only confirmed there was fears about the spiritual forces at work in my life.

By afternoon it became clear that my presence in the town was creating dangerous unrest.

father met again with his brothers and the religious authorities and I could see from their heated discussions that they were planning another attempt on my life.

This time they would ensure that no supernatural intervention could save me using methods that would guarantee my permanent silence.

My brother found me alone in our courtyard during this family conference and whispered urgently that I needed to leave immediately.

He had overheard enough of their planning to know that father intended to complete his religious duty that very night.

And this time he would not make the mistake of burying me where rescue might be possible.

Instead, they were planning something more final and foolproof.

It was then that I remembered Miriam, the Christian woman who had given me the Bible that started this entire journey.

If she was still in our area, she might be able to help me escape before father could carry out his new plan.

My brother reluctantly agreed to help me contact her, though he warned me that this would be the last assistance he could provide without endangering his own position in the family.

Through whispered conversations and carefully passed messages, we managed to reach Miriam that evening.

When she heard about my miraculous survival and my desperate need for escape, she immediately began making arrangements with an underground network of Christian believers who helped persecuted converts flee to safety.

These brave men and women had developed sophisticated systems for moving people across borders and providing new identities for those whose faith had made them targets in their home countries.

The escape plan was set for that very night just hours before father planned to complete his unfinished business.

As darkness fell and our household settled into their evening routines, my brother helped me slip away through our garden wall, carrying nothing but the clothes on my back and the absolute conviction that Jesus Christ would guide my steps just as he had lifted me from my grave.

The journey to freedom took three harrowing days.

moving from one self house to another through a network of believers who risk their own lives to help persecuted Christians escape.

These modern day heroes included expatriate workers, secret converts, and even a few sympathetic Muslims who believed that no one should die for their religious beliefs.

Each person who sheltered me did so knowing that discovery would mean imprisonment, torture, or death.

On the fourth day, I crossed the border into Jordan, carried in the back of a supply truck beneath bags of grain that concealed me from border guards.

When I finally emerged into the sunlight on the other side, I fell to my knees and wept with gratitude.

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

But freedom came with a price I was only beginning to understand.

The refugee processing center in Aman became my first taste of life as a Christian convert seeking asylum.

The officials there had heard stories like mine before, but my account of being buried alive and raised from the dead by Jesus Christ himself tested even their experienced ability to document religious persecution.

They required medical examinations, psychological evaluations, and extensive interviews to verify my claims and establish my eligibility for protection.

During those weeks of processing, I lived in a cramped facility with dozens of other refugees, each carrying their own stories of loss and serv.

Many were fellow converts from Islam who had fled similar threats and hearing their testimonies helped me realize that I was not alone in my experience.

We formed a small fellowship group that met each evening to pray and study the Bible together, finding strength in our shared faith despite the uncertainty of our circumstances.

The most difficult part of those early days was the complete silence from my family.

I had hoped that my brother might find a way to send word about mother’s well-being or to let me know if father’s anger had subsided.

But no communication came.

I was forced to accept that my death to them was now complete in every practical sense.

Even though I remained physically alive through Christ’s miraculous intervention, after 3 months in Jordan, my asylum application was approved and I was offered resettlement in a western country where I could practice my faith freely.

The transition to this new life was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Everything from the language to the culture to the climate was foreign to me.

But Christian sponsors welcomed me with open arms and helped me navigate the complexities of starting over in a completely different world.

My first Christmas as a believer was a revelation that brought tears of joy and profound gratitude.

To openly celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, to sing carols without fear, to attend church services where his name was proclaimed boldly felt like living in a dream after years of secret faith.

I remembered the young woman who had hidden her Bible behind her bedroom wall and marveled at how far God had brought me from that desperate secrecy to this beautiful freedom.

Learning to live as an open Christian required unlearning years of fear and secrecy.

Simple things like praying aloud, sharing my testimony publicly, or even wearing a cross necklace took months to feel natural.

The trauma of persecution had created reflexes that took time to overcome, and I often found myself looking over my shoulder or checking for hidden threats, even in the safety of my new country.

The Christian community that embraced me became my new family, providing not only practical support, but also the love and acceptance that I had lost when my biological family rejected me.

These believers taught me about grace, forgiveness, and the true meaning of Christian fellowship.

They showed me that following Jesus meant joining a worldwide family that transcended cultural and national boundaries.

As my English improved, and I became more comfortable sharing my story, invitations began coming to speak at churches, conferences, and Christian gatherings.

Each time I stood before an audience and recounted how Jesus had literally raised me from the dead, I watched faces transform as people grasp the reality of God’s power in the present day.

My testimony became a bridge between the miraculous accounts in scripture and the living faith that believers experience today.

The impact of sharing my story extended far beyond Christian audiences.

News outlets picked up the account of the Saudi woman who had been buried alive for her faith and miraculously survived and soon I was receiving messages from around the world.

Some expressed support and encouragement.

Others questioned the details or challenged the supernatural elements but all recognized the extraordinary nature of what had happened in that desert grav.

Most precious to me were the letters from other Muslim women who were secretly reading the Bible and considering conversion to Christianity.

They wrote about their own struggles with family expectations, their fears about persecution, and their hunger for the love and acceptance they had found in Christ’s teachings.

Many asked for prayer in guidance as they wrestled with the same decision that had nearly cost me my life.

Working with organizations that support persecuted Christians became my calling and my ministry.

I joined teams that smuggled Bibles into close countries, provided assistance to religious refugees, and documented cases of faith-based persecution for international human rights organizations.

My unique experience gave me credibility with both converts and aid workers, helping to bridge the gap between Western Christianity and the desperate needs of believers in restricted nations.

Years have passed since that night in the Saudi desert when my own father buried me alive for reading the Bible.

I have built a new life, formed deep friendships, and found purpose in serving others who face similar persecution.

Yet, not a day goes by that I do not think about my family, especially mother and my older brother, wondering if they ever regret what happened or if their hearts have softened toward the gospel message.

The drama of that experience will always be part of my story.

But so will the miracle of Christ’s intervention.

When people ask me how I have forgiven father for trying to murder me, I tell them that forgiveness became possible only when I understood how completely God had forgiven me.

The same grace that saved my soul also healed my heart from the bitterness that could have destroyed my new life in Christ.

Are you ready to let Jesus transform your life no matter the cost? That is the question I ask every person who hears my testimony because I know from experience that following Christ may require sacrificing everything you hold dear.

But I also know that what he gives in return is infinitely more valuable than anything we might lose.

The grave couldn’t hold me because Jesus had already conquered death for me and for you.

That same resurrection power that lifted me from the Saudi desert is available to anyone who calls upon his name in faith.

No matter how hopeless your situation may seem, no matter how impossible your circumstances appear, the God who raised me from the dead is able to transform your life as L.