My name is Wahida.

I am 29 years old, born into Saudi royalty in 1995.

On May 26th, 2019, my entire world collapsed when my brother made a demand that would change everything forever.

That morning, my brother told me I had to marry him to preserve our royal bloodline.

I never imagined that day would lead me to Jesus Christ.

I lived in a golden palace that most people could only dream of.

Yet, I felt spiritually empty every single day.

The marble floors beneath my feet were imported from Italy.

The chandeliers above my head were crafted from the finest crystals, and my bedroom overlooked gardens that employed dozens of workers to maintain their perfection.

But despite all this luxury, there was a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of wealth could fill.

Every morning at dawn, I would wake to the call to prayer echoing through the p the palace corridors.

I performed my ablutions in a bathroom fitted with gold fixtures, then knelt on a prayer rug worth more than most people’s cars.

Five times daily, I prostrated myself toward Mecca, reciting verses I had memorized since childhood.

My Arabic was flawless, my posture perfect, my devotion unwavering to the outside observer.

Yet, as I pressed my forehead to that expensive rug, I felt like my prayers were hitting an invisible ceiling and bouncing back down to me.

I followed every Islamic rule with meticulous precision.

During Ramadan, I fasted from sunrise to sunset without complaint.

Even when the palace kitchen filled with the most tantalizing aromomas, I covered myself completely when leaving the palace.

my black abaya flowing behind me like a shadow.

I never spoke to men outside my family, kept my eyes downcast in public, and submitted to every expectation placed upon a royal Muslim woman.

My behavior was held up as an example to other young women in our social circle.

The palace was a world unto itself, isolated from the struggles of ordinary people.

Our family controlled vast oil wealth that stretched back generations.

Father ruled our household with the same absolute authority that our ancestors had wielded over entire regions.

Every decision from what I ate for breakfast to which books I was allowed to read required his approval either directly or through the established protocols he had set in place.

My brother was being groomed as the next heir to our family’s fortune and influence.

He attended the finest schools, traveled the world, and sat in on important business meetings with father.

I watched him transform from a playful child into a serious young man who spoke about maintaining family honor and preserving our bloodlines purity.

These conversations happened during family dinners where I was expected to listen respectfully but never offer opinions.

We were taught from our earliest memories that royal blood must remain pure at any cost.

Our family tree was displayed prominently in father’s study, showing centuries of carefully arranged marriages between cousins and close relatives.

father would point to different names and explain how each union had strengthened our family’s position and preserved our noble characteristics.

He spoke of bloodline purity as if it were a sacred trust passed down from Allah himself.

I memorized the Quran completely by age 16, achievement that brought great pride to my parents.

The verses flowed from my tongue like music, and I could recite entire chapters without hesitation.

Islamic scholars who visited our palace praised my devotion and knowledge.

Yet, despite this outward success, I found myself questioning things I dared not voice aloud.

Late at night, after the palace had grown quiet and the servants had retired to their quarters, I would lie in my canopied bed, staring at the ornate ceiling.

The silence felt oppressive rather than peaceful.

I wondered if this was all there was to life.

This endless cycle of ritual and restriction.

My daily routine felt like a beautiful prison where every movement was choreographed and every thought was prescribed.

Have you ever followed religion perfectly yet felt completely empty inside? That was my existence for 19 years.

I had everything the world told me should make me happy.

I had wealth beyond measure, status that commanded respect and religious devotion that earned praise from everyone around me.

Yet I craved something I could not even name.

A connection that seemed perpetually out of reach.

During my private moments, I sensed that Allah was distant and unreachable, like a stern judge sitting on a throne far above the clouds.

My prayers felt mechanical, like I was going through motions to fulfill an obligation rather than communicating with someone who loved me.

I longed for a personal relationship with the divine, something beyond the formal rituals and prescribed phrases that filled my days.

The other women in my social circle seemed content with their roles, or at least they never expressed dissatisfaction in my presence.

They discussed fashion, marriages within our extended network, and charitable activities that befitted women of our station.

Their conversations never touched on spiritual hunger or deeper questions about purpose and meaning.

I began to wonder if I was defective somehow, if my restlessness indicated a flaw in my character.

My education was carefully curated to include only subjects deemed appropriate for a woman of my position.

I studied literature, art, and languages, but always within boundaries that reinforced rather than challenged our family’s worldview.

The books in our library were selected to support the values father wanted us to embrace.

I read countless volumes about Islamic history and juristprudence, but never encountered perspectives that might encourage independent thinking.

As I grew older, the weight of expectation grew heavier.

Marriage was discussed frequently, though never directly with me.

I overheard conversations between my parents about suitable arrangements that would benefit our family’s interests.

The young men they considered were evaluated based on bloodline, wealth, and political connections rather than character or compatibility.

Love was never mentioned as a factor worth considering.

I found myself daydreaming about a different kind of life, one where I could speak freely about my thoughts and questions.

I imagined conversations with someone who would listen to my doubts without immediately correcting them or redirecting me back to prescribed answers.

But such fantasies felt dangerous, like I was betraying everything I had been taught to value and respect.

This was my world before everything changed.

A golden cage where I had everything except the one thing my soul desperately craved.

Genuine spiritual connection and freedom to be authentic about my deepest longings.

The morning of May 26th, 2019 began like any other in our palace.

I performed my dawn prayers in the solitude of my room, then joined my family for breakfast in the ornate dining hall.

The servants moved silently around us, refilling tea glasses and arranging fresh dates on silver platters.

Father discussed business matters with my brother, while mother and I listened respectfully, as was our custom.

Nothing in that peaceful scene prepared me for the devastation that was about to unfold.

After breakfast, my brother asked me to walk with him in the royal garden.

This was not unusual, as we often strolled together among the carefully manicured roses and fountains.

The morning air was still cool, and the scent of jasmine filled the space between us.

We walked in comfortable silence for several minutes before he stopped beside the marble fountain that had been my favorite spot since childhood.

His words still echo in my mind with crystal clarity.

“Waha,” he said, his voice carrying a strange formality I had never heard before.

“You must marry me.

” The words hit me like physical blows.

I actually stumbled backward.

my hand reaching for the fountain’s edge to steady myself.

For a moment I thought I had misheard him, that perhaps the sound of flowing water had distorted his meaning, but then he continued, explaining with the same calm tone he used for business discussions.

“It is for preserving our pure royal bloodline,” he said, as if this somehow made the proposal reasonable.

father has decided this is the best way to maintain our family’s strength and honor.

Our children will carry the purest blood possible.

Every cell in my body screamed that this was wrong.

The physical revulsion was immediate and overwhelming.

My stomach churned and I felt bile rising in my throat.

My hands began trembling uncontrollably, and I had to grip the fountain’s marble edge to keep from collapsing.

This was my brother, the person who had protected me from nightmares as a child, who had taught me to ride horses, who had been my closest companion through all the isolation of palace life.

How could my own brother suggest such a thing? The brother who had once promised to defend my honor was now asking me to sacrifice it in the name of family tradition.

I stared at his face, searching for some sign that this was a cruel joke, but his expression remained serious and expectant.

He spoke as if he were proposing a business merger rather than something that violated every natural instinct I possessed.

I managed to whisper, “This cannot be what Allah wants.

” But my brother shook his head dismissively.

This is about family duty.

He replied, “Personal feelings are less important than preserving what our ancestors built.

” He went on to explain how many royal families throughout history had followed similar practices, how our own genealogy included numerous such unions that had strengthened rather than weakened our lineage.

That evening, father summoned both of us to his private study.

The room was lined with ancient books and family portraits, creating an atmosphere of overwhelming tradition and authority.

Without any preamble, he endorsed the marriage plan with enthusiasm.

This union will ensure our bloodline remains undiluted, he declared, his voice carrying the same tone he used for announcing business decisions that affected millions.

Father pulled out genealogical charts that traced our family history back 12 generations.

His finger traced lines connecting various relatives who had married within the family, explaining how each union had preserved certain desirable traits and maintained political alliances.

He spoke of genetic advantages and cultural preservation as if these academic concepts could somehow override the horror I felt in my heart.

Mother remained silent throughout this meeting, her eyes fixed on her folded hands.

In our culture, women were expected to accept the decisions made by the men in their families without question or complaint.

I searched her face desperately for some sign of support or understanding, but she refused to meet my gaze.

Her silence felt like another betrayal, though I knew she had no power to oppose father’s will, even if she disagreed.

The palace advisers were consulted and unanimously supported the arrangement.

They cited historical precedents and religious justifications with the confidence of men who had never questioned the systems that granted them power and privilege.

Their words blended together into a chorus of authoritative voices, all insisting that my personal revulsion was irrelevant compared to family obligations.

In desperation, I sought guidance from our family’s Islamic scholars, hoping they would condemn such a marriage as forbidden.

I approached them privately, framing my questions carefully to avoid directly challenging father’s decision.

But to my horror, they cited religious texts that seemed to justify marriages between close relatives under certain circumstances.

They spoke of Prophet Muhammad’s companions and various interpretations of Islamic law that had been used throughout history to permit such unions.

One elderly scholar spent nearly an hour explaining how marriages between siblings had been practiced by royal families in various Islamic societies, how purity of bloodline had been considered a religious duty in certain contexts.

His words felt like poison in my ears, but his authority was unquestionable within our household.

My heart rebelled against their interpretations, but I had been taught since childhood never to question religious authority.

The isolation became unbearable.

I had no one within the palace walls who would listen to my concerns with sympathy or understanding.

My personal servants were loyal to the family rather than to me individually.

My female cousins and friends were products of the same system that now demanded my compliance.

Speaking to any of them about my revulsion would have been seen as a betrayal of everything we had been raised to honor.

Every night I cried myself to sleep on pillows that became soaked with tears.

The beautiful room that had once felt like a sanctuary now felt like a prison cell.

I found myself staring at the ornate walls and wondering if these golden surroundings would become the boundaries of my entire existence.

If I would spend the rest of my life trapped in a relationship that violated everything I believed about love and family.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, have you ever felt completely alone while surrounded by people who claimed to love you? That was my reality during those dark weeks.

I felt trapped in a golden cage with no escape, facing a future that filled me with dread and disgust while everyone around me insisted it was for my own good.

The sleepless nights that followed my brother’s devastating proposal drove me to desperate measures I had never imagined possible.

While the palace slept around me, I found myself creeping through darkened corridors to reach the computer room that father used for international business communications.

My heart pounded so loudly I was certain the night guards would hear it echoing off the marble walls.

Every footstep felt like a thunderclap that might expose my forbidden mission.

I had never questioned my faith before, but now I felt compelled to search for answers beyond the boundaries that had been drawn around my entire existence.

The computer screen glowed like a forbidden beacon in the darkness as I typed search terms I had never dared consider before.

My fingers trembled on the keyboard as I entered phrases like other religions and different faiths, feeling like I was committing an act of treason against everything I had been taught to believe.

The first few nights I mostly found academic articles about comparative religion that discussed Islam alongside other belief systems.

These scholarly papers felt safe because they maintained the intellectual distance I was accustomed to from my formal education.

But even these clinical descriptions of Christianity, Judaism, and Buddhism opened doorways in my mind that had been sealed shut since childhood.

Using the palace computers felt like walking through a minefield.

Every click might leave digital traces that could expose my secret investigation.

I learned to clear browser histories and did deleted temporary files, skills I never thought a SOD princess would need.

The irony was not lost on me that I was using technology purchased with oil wealth to explore ideas that could destroy my place and the family that controlled that wealth.

As weeks passed, my searches became bolder and more specific.

I moved beyond academic articles to websites that actually promoted other faiths rather than merely describing them.

The first time I visited a Christian website, my hand hovered over the mouse for several minutes before I found the courage to click.

I felt like I was crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

That first encounter with Christianity hit me like a lightning bolt.

Here was a website filled with stories of a man named Jesus Christ who spoke about love in ways I had never heard before.

His teachings about relationships, family, and purity stood in stark contrast to the justifications I had been hearing for my forced marriage.

where Islamic scholars had found religious loopholes to support my brother’s proposal.

Jesus seemed to defend the very principles my heart knew were right.

I read verses about how Jesus honored women and protected them from exploitation.

There were stories of him defending women caught in compromising situations, of him teaching that marriage should be based on love and mutual respect rather than political or economic convenience.

Every word felt like it was written specifically for my situation.

Like this justice’s person understood the conflict raging in my soul.

The contrast between Jesus and the Allah I had been taught to worship was startling.

Where Allah seemed distant and demanding, requiring perfect adherence to complex rules and rituals, Jesus appeared personal and accessible.

The Christian website spoke of him as someone who wanted a relationship rather than mere religious compliance.

This concept was so foreign to my Islamic upbringing that I initially dismissed it as impossible.

But night after night, I found myself returning to these Christian websites with growing fascination.

I read about Jesus defending the sanctity of family relationships, about his teachings against the very kind of arranged marriages that were being forced upon me.

His words about loving your neighbor as yourself seemed to create a moral framework that made my forced marriage obviously wrong.

Not because of religious technicalities, but because of fundamental principles about human dignity and love.

I began downloading Bible verses onto a hidden phone I purchased secretly during one of my rarest shopping trips outside the palace.

The process required enormous stealth and planning.

I had to find opportunities to visit electronic stores without my usual security detail.

Paying with cash I had saved from the small allowances father provided for personal expenses.

Every step felt like I was building a secret identity that contradicted everything I was supposed to be.

Reading these verses on my hidden phone became an obsession.

I would hide in bathroom stalls, in closets, in any private space where I could study these foreign words without detection.

The language was so different from the formal Arabic of the Quran.

Where Islamic texts felt ceremonial and distant, these Bible verses felt like personal letters written to address my specific pain and confusion.

The websites led me to video testimonies of people who had found Jesus, including some who had converted from Islam.

Their stories resonated with my own experience of spiritual emptiness despite religious devotion.

I watched these videos with earphones.

The volume turned so low I could barely hear, terrified that someone might overhear even the faintest sound of these forbidden messages.

One particular video featured a woman who had escaped an arranged marriage through what she described as divine intervention.

Her testimony felt like a mirror of my own situation, except she had found a way out through faith in Jesus Christ.

She spoke about praying to Jesus for rescue and receiving an answer that changed her entire life trajectory.

Her story planted a seed of desperate hope in my heart.

My soul was literally starving for this message of unconditional love and personal freedom.

Every night of secret research felt like finding water in a desert.

The more I learned about Jesus, the more convinced I became that everything I had been taught about God and relationships was fundamentally flawed.

This was not just an intellectual exercise.

It was becoming a matter of spiritual survival.

Have you ever discovered that everything you believed about the most important questions in life might be wrong? That was my experience during those secret midnight hours.

I was not just questioning specific religious practices.

I was questioning the entire world view that had shaped my identity since birth.

Finally, I reached a point where theoretical knowledge was not enough.

I had read enough about Jesus to believe he might actually be real, that he might actually care about my specific situation.

But belief and faith are different things.

I decided to test whether this Jesus was real enough to intervene in my impossible circumstances.

If he could save me from this forced marriage, I would dedicate my life to following him.

If not, I would know that Christianity was just another false hope in a world full of broken promises.

The decision to actually pray to Jesus felt like the most dangerous thing I had ever contemplated, more terrifying than any physical risk I had ever taken.

The engagement ceremony was scheduled for the following morning, and I knew this was my last night of freedom.

The palace bustled with preparations as servants hung decorations and arranged flowers for what everyone else saw as a celebration.

But I experienced as my funeral.

The irony was suffocating.

Gold ribbons and white roses were be being arranged to commemorate what I considered the death of my soul.

I retreated to my room after the evening meal, telling everyone I needed rest before the important day ahead.

The lie came easily because it served their expectations.

But inside, I felt like a condemned prisoner spending her final hours in solitary confinement.

I locked my bedroom door and turned off all the lights except for a single lamp beside my bed.

The darkness felt appropriate for what I was about to attempt for the first time in my entire life.

I deliberately turned my back to Mecca.

This simple physical act felt more rebellious than anything I had ever done.

Every night for 19 years, I had oriented myself toward the holy city for prayers.

Now I faced the opposite direction, toward the window that looked out over the palace gardens where my brother had first made his horrific proposal.

I had never prayed to anyone but Allah, and the words felt strange and unfamiliar on my tongue.

There was no prescribed format for this prayer, no memorized verses to guide me.

I was about to have the first spontaneous, unrehearsed conversation with the divine that I had ever attempted.

My heart pounded with fear that I might be committing the ultimate blasphemy.

But my desperation was stronger than my terror.

I knelt on the marble floor of my room, my knees pressing against the cold stone rather than the familiar softness of my prayer rug.

The physical discomfort seemed appropriate for this unprecedented moment.

My hands shook as I raised them, not knowing if Jesus would require the same postures I had used for Islamic prayers or if this new faith demanded different physical expressions.

Jesus, I whispered into the darkness, and even saying his name felt like crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

If you are real, if you truly love us, as the websites claimed, please save us from this sin.

The words tumbled out of me like water breaking through a dam.

I cannot marry my brother.

Every part of my being knows this is wrong, but I have no power to stop.

What is happening? Tears began streaming down my face as I continued speaking to this Jesus I had only recently discovered.

I have followed Islamic rules perfectly my entire life.

But they have led me to this moment of horror.

If you are the truth, if you are the God who actually loves and protects his children, please show me a way out of this nightmare.

The prayer became more desperate as I poured out 19 years of spiritual hunger and confusion.

I need to know that there is a God who sees my pain and cares about my heart, not just my compliance with religious rules.

I need to know that forced marriage and family manipulation are not your will for my life.

I had never experienced prayer as a conversation before and the intimacy of it overwhelmed me.

Instead of reciting memorized verses in Arabic, I was speaking from my heart in my native language, expressing thoughts and emotions I had never been allowed to voice aloud.

The freedom of it was intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.

As I prayed, something extraordinary began happening in the room around me.

The darkness started giving way to a soft, warm light.

that seemed to have no identifiable source.

At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, that stress and exhaustion were creating hallucinations.

But the light grew brighter and more definite, filling the space with a presence I had never experienced before.

Suddenly, I saw him.

A man in brilliant white robes stood before me, and I knew immediately that this was Jesus Christ.

His face radiated compassion and understanding that went beyond anything I had ever seen in human expressions.

His eyes held depths of love that seemed to reach into my soul and understand every pain I had ever carried.

The vision was more real than anything I had ever experienced.

This was not a dream or a product of my imagination.

Every detail was sharp and clear, from the way the light seemed to emanate from his presence to the gentle expression on his face that communicated perfect understanding of my situation.

He extended his hand toward me, and when he spoke, his voice carried authority and tenderness that made every other voice I had ever heard seem like whispers.

“Daughter,” he said, and the word encompass more love than I had received in my entire lifetime.

I have set you free from bondage.

The words penetrated my heart with such power that I felt physical chains breaking away from my spirit.

The oppression that had weighed on me since my brother’s proposal lifted completely, replaced by a peace and freedom I had never imagined possible.

In that moment, I understood that this Jesus was not just another religious figure, but the living God who knew my name and cared about my specific circumstances.

What I did not know at the time was that my brother was experiencing the exact same vision simultaneously in his own room.

unknown to me.

He had been struggling with guilt and confusion about the forced marriage proposal, and Jesus had appeared to him at precisely the same moment he appeared to me.

Later, my brother would tell me that Jesus had spoken different words to him.

Protect your sister as I have protected you.

The same divine presence that was setting me free was also transforming his heart, showing him that true family honor meant protecting rather than exploiting those we love.

The vision lasted only moments, but it changed everything about my understanding of God, faith, and my own identity.

When the light faded and I found myself alone in my room again, I knew with absolute certainty that my life had been fundamentally altered.

I was no longer the same person who had entered that room in desperation and fear.

Have you ever experienced a moment when everything you thought you knew about reality shifted completely? That was my experience.

In those precious minutes when Jesus revealed himself to me, I had asked for rescue and he had provided not just a way out of my immediate crisis, but a completely new understanding of what it meant to have a relationship with the divine.

The morning after our divine encounter, my brother bursts into my room before dawn with an expression I had never seen on his face before.

His eyes held a mixture of wonder, fear, and determination that immediately told me something extraordinary had happened to him as well.

Without any greeting or explanation, he grabbed my hands and said, “Sister, we cannot do this.

God has shown me another way.

” We spent the next hour comparing our visions and the realization that Jesus had appeared to both of us simultaneously filled us with awe and terror.

My brother described seeing the same figure in white robes, hearing the same voice of absolute authority and love.

The fact that we had experienced identical divine interventions at the exact same moment confirmed that this was not imagination or wishful thinking, but genuine supernatural communication.

Together, we knelt in my room and prayed to receive Jesus as our savior.

The words felt foreign on our tongues, but our hearts embraced them with desperate gratitude.

Jesus, we surrender our lives to you.

We whispered together, “Forgive our sins and make us your children.

” The weight of 19 years of religious obligation and cultural expectations lifted from our shoulders as we spoke these simple words of faith.

The peace that filled us was unlike anything we had experienced in our lifetimes of Islamic devotion.

For the first time, we felt truly connected to the divine, not through ritual and rule following, but through relationship and love.

We knew our lives had changed forever.

But we also knew that the consequences of this transformation would be swift and severe.

When father discovered our conversion later that morning, his rage was more terrifying than anything I had ever witnessed.

The man who had always maintained dignified composure in public became a roaring force of fury that echoed through the palace corridors.

His face turned crimson as he screamed accusations of betrayal, ingratitude, and apostasy that would bring shame upon our entire family lineage.

He summoned religious authorities, family advisors, and security personnel to address what he called this temporary madness that had infected his children.

For hours, we endured lectures, threats, and attempts at forced recon conversion.

Islamic scholars quoted verses about the punishment for apostasy, while father detailed the financial and social consequences of our rebellion against family expectations.

Mother’s reaction was perhaps even more painful than father’s rage.

She wept as if we had died, mourning not just our conversion, but the loss of everything she had invested in our upbringing.

Her tears carried the weight of a mother’s broken dreams, and watching her grief was almost enough to make me reconsider the path we had chosen.

But the peace of Christ that now filled my heart was stronger than even my love for my mother’s happiness.

Our inheritance was immediately revoked through legal documents that father had prepared with frightening efficiency.

Bank accounts were frozen.

Trust funds were redirected to distant relatives and our names were removed from all family business interests.

Within hours, we went from being wealthy heirs to having no legal claim to any portion of the family fortune.

Palace guards were ordered to confine us to our rooms while father decided our ultimate fate.

The same corridors that had been our home became our prison as armed men prevented us from leaving the royal compound.

We were allowed no contact with the outside world while family meetings determined whether we could be forced back into compliance or would need to be permanently removed from the family structure.

The most devastating blow came when father declared us officially dead to the family name in a formal ceremony attended by our extended relatives.

He announced that his children had perished due to spiritual corruption and that no one bearing our family name should acknowledge our existence.

Our portraits were removed from family galleries.

Our belongings were distributed to loyal family members and our rooms were prepared for new occupants.

We realized that staying in Saudi Arabia would mean either forced recon conversion or physical elimination.

Father’s connections extended throughout the government and religious establishment, making it impossible for us to find refuge anywhere within the country’s borders.

Our only option was immediate escape, but we had less than 24 hours before increased security measures would make departure impossible.

My brother sold his most valuable jewelry pieces to merchants who asked no questions about the urgency of our transactions.

We converted watches, rings, and ceremonial daggers into enough cash for plane tickets and basic survival funds.

The irony was bitter.

We were using symbols of our royal status to purchase freedom from that same status.

The escape itself felt like a scene from an action movie rather than real life.

We left the palace compound hidden in a delivery truck driven by a sympathetic kitchen worker who risked his own safety to help us reach the airport.

Every checkpoint and security camera represented a potential end to our newfound freedom.

As we made our way through a city where our faces were recognizable to law enforcement, we boarded an international flight with nothing but the clothes on our backs and a small bag containing our hidden phones and what little money we had managed to gather.

As the plane lifted off from Saudi soil, I pressed my face to the window and watched the only home I had ever known disappear beneath the clouds.

The physical separation from everything familiar was overwhelming, but it was also liberating.

Within days of our escape, hired investigators began tracking our movements across multiple countries.

Private security firms with connections to our family appeared at airports and hotels where we attempted to rest.

Death threats reached us through social media accounts and email addresses we thought were secure.

The message was clear.

Our conversion had made us targets for elimination rather than simply family outcasts.

We lived in constant motion for months, never staying in one location for more than a few days.

The paranoia was exhausting, but it was also necessary for survival.

Every knock on a hotel room door, every stranger who looked at us twice, every unexpected phone call could signal that our pursuers had finally caught up with us.

The physical hardships of homelessness, hunger, and fear became our daily companions.

There were moments when I wondered if following Jesus was worth losing everything that had previously defined my existence.

The comfort and security of palace life seemed like distant dreams as we slept in train stations and ate from charity kitchens.

But even in the darkest moments of our exile, the peace that Jesus had given us during that divine encounter sustained us through every trial.

I’m asking you just as someone who lost everything material for faith.

Is Jesus worth it when the cost seems overwhelming? After months of running and hiding, we found refuge in a small Christian church in a European city I cannot name for security reasons.

The pastor and his congregation welcomed us with an love that restored our faith in humanity after experiencing so much rejection and persecution.

These believers who had never known wealth or royal privilege opened their hearts and homes to us without hesitation or expectation of anything in return.

For the first time since our conversion, we experienced what true family meant.

These Christians became our brothers and sisters in Christ, not because of blood or social status, but because we shared the same savior.

They fed us when we were hungry, clothed us when we had nothing, and protected us when we felt most vulnerable.

Their generosity stood in stark contrast to our biological family’s conditional love that had evaporated the moment we chose a different path.

The church community taught us that following Jesus meant gaining a family far larger and more loving than any earthly bloodline could provide.

Children who barely knew us called us uncle and aunt.

Elderly members treated us as their own grandchildren.

And young couples welcomed us into their homes as honored guests.

This was the kind of love Jesus had promised, and experiencing it healed wounds I did not even know existed.

My brother’s transformation was perhaps even more dramatic than my own.

The same man who had proposed an ungodly marriage became my fierce protector in the way God intended brothers to guard their sisters.

Jesus had restored our sibling relationship to its proper design where his strength served to defend my honor rather than violate it.

He now spoke passionately about protecting women from exploitation and ensuring that marriages reflected God’s design for love and mutual respect.

We devoured the Bible like people who had been starving their entire lives.

Every page revealed new truths about God’s character that contradicted everything we had been taught about the divine.

Where Islamic teaching had presented Allah as distant and demanding, Jesus revealed himself as intimate and gracious.

Where our former religion had emphasized fear and submission, Christianity celebrated relationship and voluntary love.

Prayer became a completely different experience from the ritual recitations of our past.

Instead of mechanically repeating memorized verses at prescribed times, we found ourselves in constant conversation with our heavenly father.

We could express doubts, ask questions, share fears, and receive comfort in ways that would have been unthinkable in our Islamic upbringing.

The contrast between our old and new spiritual lives was startling.

We had spent years trying to earn God’s favor through perfect religious performance, never knowing if our efforts were sufficient to secure salvation.

Now we rested in the assurance that Jesus had already paid the price for our sins, that our acceptance by God depended on his grace rather than our works.

As our understanding of Christianity deepened, we began sharing our testimony with other Muslims who were searching for truth, our unique background as former Saudi royalty opened doors that might have remained closed to other Christian witnesses.

Muslims who would have dismissed testimony from Western Christians listened carefully when we described our journey from Islam to faith in Jesus.

We discovered that our painful experiences had prepared us for a specific ministry that few others could fulfill.

Who better to reach wealthy Muslims than former royalty who understood the emptiness of material success? Who better to counsel those facing family persecution than siblings who had lost everything for following Christ? Our sufferings had become qualifications for service rather than meaningless tragedies.

Today, we work together in a ministry that helps Muslims discover the love and freedom we found in Jesus Christ.

We operate carefully to protect both ourselves and those we serve as apostasy from Islam remains dangerous in many contexts.

But every person who finds salvation through our testimony validates the price we paid for our own conversion.

Our ministry has grown to include safe houses for converts fleeing persecution, educational programs that compare Islamic and Christian teachings and support networks that help new believers integrate into Christian communities.

We have seen dozens of Muslims come to faith in Christ and many of them now serve in ministry themselves.

My brother and I often reflect on how God used our darkest moment to bring us into his light.

The forced marriage proposal that seemed like our destruction became the catalyst for our salvation.

What Satan intended for evil, God transformed into the greatest blessing of our lives.

Had we not faced that crisis, we might never have sought alternatives to our Islamic faith.

We may have lost earthly royalty, but we gained heavenly citizenship.

Our names may have been removed from family genealogies, but they were written in the lamb’s book of life.

We traded temporary wealth for eternal treasure, conditional family love for unconditional divine acceptance, and religious bondage for spiritual freedom.

Every day we thank God for saving us from that forced marriage and from the spiritual deception that had held us captive for 19 years.

The pain of losing our earth earthly family remains real, but it pales in comparison to the joy of knowing our heavenly father.

We pray constantly for our parents and extended family, hoping they too will someday discover the truth we found in Jesus.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, is Jesus calling you to leave behind whatever is keeping you from following him completely? The voice that called us out of darkness is the same voice that speaks to every human heart regardless of background, culture, or current religious affiliation.

If Jesus can save a Saudi princess and her brother from the deepest deception and family bondage, he can save anyone from whatever prison holds them captive.

Your past mistakes do not disqualify you from his grace.

Your current circumstances do not limit his power to transform your life.

Your family’s expectations do not override his perfect plan for your future.

He is waiting for you right now with open arms, ready to welcome you into his family where love is unconditional and freedom is guaranteed.

The same Jesus who appeared to us in supernatural vision is still revealing himself to those who seek him with sincere hearts.

Pray with me right now.

Jesus, I surrender my life to you.

Save me from whatever bondage I am in.

whether religious, cultural or personal.

Make me your child today and give me the courage to follow you regardless of the cost.

He will answer that prayer.

I promise you.

He answered ours when we thought all hope was lost.

And he will answer yours if you call upon him in faith.

This is not just my testimony, but an invitation for you to begin your own journey from darkness into his marvelous