My name is Hawa.

I am 28 years old.

And on September 22nd, 2017, my life changed forever when Jesus Christ saved me from the unthinkable.

I was born Saudi royalty, but that privilege became my prison.

What I’m about to tell you will challenge everything you think you know about family, faith, and freedom.

Growing up in the royal palace of Saudi Arabia was like living inside a golden cage that grew smaller every year.

The marble floors beneath my feet were imported from Italy.

The chandeliers above my head were crafted from the finest crystal and the silk curtains that adorned every window cost more than most people earn in a lifetime.

Yet with each passing day, I felt the walls closing in around me.

As a child, I believed I was blessed by Allah to be born into such privilege.

My days were filled with private tutors who taught me Arabic calligraphy, Islamic studies, and the refined manners expected of a princess.

I memorized verses from the Quran with genuine devotion.

My heart swelling with pride as I recited the beautiful words in perfect pronunciation.

My faith in Allah was pure and sincere.

I truly believed I was living according to his will, sheltered and protected within the sacred walls of our family compound.

The palace itself was a world unto itself, sprawling across acres of manicured gardens, where fountains played day and night.

My childhood memories are filled with the sound of that water, the scent of jasmine that bloomed in carefully tended beds, and the rustle of my traditional robes as I walked through corridors lined with portraits of my ancestors.

Each face in those paintings seemed to watch me.

Their eyes follow in my movements as if they were guardians of some ancient secret I had yet to discover.

My father ruled our household with absolute authority.

He was a man whose presence filled every room he entered, whose word was law, not just within our family, but throughout the kingdom.

When he spoke, everyone listened.

When he smiled, it felt like the sun had emerged from behind clouds.

When his expression darkened, the entire palace seemed to hold its breath.

I adored him as only a daughter can adore her father, hanging on his every word and seeking his approval in everything I did.

Mother moved through our home like a graceful shadow, always present, but somehow distant.

She was beautiful in the way that desert flowers.

are beautiful, delicate, and perfectly formed.

Yet, there was something in her eyes that I could never quite understand.

When she looked at me, especially as I grew older, and began to develop into a young woman, her gaze held a mixture of love and something else, something that looked almost like sorrow, or perhaps warning.

She would reach out to touch my face with trembling fingers, then pull her hand away as if she had remembered something painful.

I spent my days in relative isolation from the outside world, as was proper for a princess of my standing.

My companions were carefully selected from other noble families, girls whose backgrounds had been thoroughly investigated and approved.

We studied together, prayed together, and shared the dreams that young women everywhere share.

They spoke of their future husbands with excitement, wondering which families their fathers would choose for them, imagining the beautiful weddings they would have and the children they would bear.

Yet, even in those innocent conversations, I began to notice strange undercurrens.

Sometimes my friends would mention family traditions that seemed odd to me, customs that involved keeping bloodlines pure and maintaining family honor through practices they never fully explained.

When I asked questions, they would glance at at each other nervously and change the subject.

Their mothers when visiting would look at me with a combination of pity and knowing that made my skin crawl, though I could not understand why.

Ask yourself this question.

When does protection become imprisonment? I began to feel the answer to that question long before I could put it into words.

As I approached my 16th birthday, the freedom I had once taken for granted began to slip away like sand through my fingers.

My movements within the palace became more restricted.

My access to the outside world, which had always been limited, became almost non-existent.

The internet connection in my room was monitored more closely, and books that had once been available to me mysteriously disappeared from the palace library.

Father began to pay me a different kind of attention, where once his affection had been paternal and protective.

Now his gaze lingered on my developing figure in ways that made me deeply uncomfortable.

He would comment on how I was becoming a beautiful woman, how I was growing into someone who would bring great honor to our family name.

His hands, when he touched my shoulder or stroked my hair, seemed to linger longer than they should.

When I would pull away instinctively, his eyes would flash with something that looked like anger before his expression returned to its usual benevolent mask.

The conversations I overheard between him and mother became more frequent and more intense.

They spoke in hushed tones about preserving our royal bloodline, about maintaining the purity that had made our family powerful for generations.

I caught fragments of these discussions, words about ancient practices and family obligations that made my stomach twist with unease.

When they noticed me listening, they would stop talking immediately and smile at me as if nothing had happened.

Mother’s behavior became even more strange and distant.

She would sometimes weep for no apparent reason, then quickly dry her tears when she realized I was watching.

Once I found her praying with an intensity that frightened me.

Her forehead pressed against her prayer rug so hard that it left marks on her skin.

When I asked what troubled her, she simply looked at me with those sad knowing eyes and said that she was praying for Allah’s mercy on our family.

The extended family members who visited our palace seemed to watch me with a hunger that made my flesh crawl.

My uncles would make comments about how fortunate father was to have such a beautiful daughter, how our bloodline had produced another perfect specimen.

My aunts would examine me as if I were a prize animal, commenting on my features, my health, my obvious suitability for carrying on the family legacy.

Their children, my cousins, seemed to know something I did not.

shooting me glances that held secrets I was not yet privy privy to understand.

As my 18th birthday approached, the whispers became more urgent, the planning more intense.

Father announced that it was time to arrange my marriage, that he had found the perfect candidate to preserve our family’s honor and bloodline.

The man he had chosen was my cousin, a distant relative whose own royal cred credentials were impeccable.

I accepted this news with the resignation that had been bred into me from birth.

This was the way of our people, the path that Allah had laid out for daughters of noble families.

The wedding ceremony passed in a blur of silk, gold, and the heavy scent of frankincense.

I moved through the rituals like a sleepwalker, my body present, but my mind floating somewhere above the festivities.

Hundreds of guests celebrated what they believed was a joyous union.

While I felt as though I was attending my own funeral, the labra henna designs on my hands felt like chains, and the weight of the traditional gold jewelry seemed to press down on my shoulders like the burden of generations.

My new husband was polite during the ceremony, even gentle in his mannerisms.

He was handsome in the way that royal men often are, with strong features and an air of confidence that came from a lifetime of privilege.

When he took my hand during the vows, his touch was not unpleasant.

I allowed myself a small hope that perhaps this arranged marriage would grow into something resembling happiness.

I had heard stories of couples who learned to love each other over time, who found contentment in fulfilling their duties to family and faith.

That hope died a brutal death on our wedding night.

After the last guest had departed, and the palace had grown quiet, my husband led me to the bridal suite that had been prepared for us.

The room was decorated with rose petals and candles, creating an atmosphere that should have been romantic, but felt ominous in the flickering light.

I sat on the edge of the bed, nervous, but trying to prepare myself mentally for what I believed would be a normal wedding night between husband and wife.

My husband closed the door behind us and turned to face me with an expression I had never seen before.

The gentle politeness from the ceremony had vanished, replaced by something cold and calculating.

He walked to a chair across from the bed and sat down, studying me as if I were an object he was considering purchasing.

There are things you need to understand about this marriage, he said, his voice devoid of any warmth.

things that your father should have explained to you, but apparently chose to leave for me to clarify.

A chill ran down my spine at his tone, but I tried to maintain my composure.

“What thing?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You are not here to be my wife in the way that common people understand marriage,” he continued, his eyes never leaving my face.

You are here to serve a higher purpose to preserve the purity of our royal bloodline through methods that have been practiced in our families for generations.

I felt my heart begin to race, though I did not yet understand the full meaning of his words.

I don’t understand, I said, though part of me was beginning to fear that I understood all too well.

He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze becoming even more intense.

You will be shared between your father and myself.

This arrangement ensures that any children born will carry the purest possible royal blood.

It is an honor that has been bestowed upon only the most beautiful and worthy daughters of our lineage.

The words hit me like physical blows.

I felt the room spinning around me, the candles flames seeming to dance in wild threatening patterns.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head frantically.

“That cannot be true.

That is not Islamic.

That is not what Allah wants,” my husband laughed, a sound completely devoid of humor.

“What do you know about what Allah wants? You are a woman and a young one at that.

Your father is a religious leader, a man who understands the deeper mysteries of faith that are hidden from common understanding.

He has consulted with scholars who know the ancient ways, the practices that kept our bloodlines pure long before the modern world tried to corrupt our traditions.

I stood up from the bed, my legs shaking so violently I could barely support my own weight.

I will not do this, I said, my voice growing stronger despite my terror.

This is wrong.

This is forbidden.

I will go to my mother.

I will seek help.

Your mother? He stood as well, towering over me with a presence that felt suffocating.

Your mother has known about this arrangement since the day you were born.

She participated in the same tradition with your father and his father before him.

Where do you think you came from? How do you think our family has maintained such perfect bloodlines for so many generations? The revelation hit me like a physical blow to my chest.

I thought of mother’s sad eyes, her distant behavior, the way she sometimes looked at me with such profound sorrow.

I thought of the tears she shed for no apparent reason.

The intensity of her prayers.

The way she sometimes flinched when father touched her shoulder.

Suddenly everything made horrible perfect sense.

No, I said again, but this time my voice was broken, barely audible.

Please, no.

It is already decided, he said, moving toward the door.

Your father will join us shortly.

I suggest you use this time to pray and prepare yourself to fulfill your sacred duty to our family.

After he left, I collapsed onto the floor, my elaborate wedding dress spreading around me like a puddle of silk and despair.

My mind reeled as I tried to process what I had just learned.

This was not a nightmare from which I could wake up.

This was my reality, my future stretching out before me like an endless corridor of darkness.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, have you ever felt so completely trapped that you questioned whether God himself had abandoned you? That night, as I lay on the cold marble floor of that beautiful prison, I felt more alone than any human being should ever feel.

When father arrived an hour later, his face wore the same expression of cold entitlement that my husband had shown.

He looked down at me with no trace of the paternal love I had known all my life.

In that moment, I realized that the father I had adored, the man I had trusted above all others, had never truly existed.

He had been an illusion carefully maintained until I was old enough to serve his twisted purposes.

“Stand up,” he commanded her.

His voice carrying the authority that had once made me feel protected, but now filled me with dread.

I could not move.

My body felt paralyzed by shock and horror.

The room seemed to be spinning around me and I thought I might vomit from the overwhelming nausea that gripped my stomach.

I said, “Stand up.

” Father repeated his tone growing dangerous.

You will learn obedience one way or another.

This is bigger than your individual desires.

This is about the continuation of a bloodline that has ruled for centuries.

Your personal feelings are insignificant compared to this sacred responsibility.

As I forced myself to stand on trembling legs, I realized that my childhood, my faith, my entire understanding of family and love had been built on lies.

The men I had trusted most in the world had planned my destruction.

From the moment I was born, I was not their beloved daughter and wife.

I was breeding stock, a vessel for continuing their genetic legacy, no different from from the prize horses they kept in the royal stables.

That night began a nightmare that would consume the next months of my life.

I learned that there was no one to whom I could turn for help, no authority higher than the men who controlled every aspect of my existence.

My screams went unheard beyond the walls of that room.

My tears were met with indifference or anger.

My pleas for mercy fell on ears that had grown deaf to human suffering in pursuit of their obsession with bloodline purity.

The Islamic faith that had once brought me comfort became a source of torment as father twisted religious concepts to justify their actions.

He spoke of obedience to male authority, of the sacred duty of women to preserve family honor, of ancient practices that predated modern interpretations of Islamic law.

When I protested that this violated everything the Quran taught about human dignity and family relationships, he struck me and told me that I was too ignorant to understand the deeper mysteries of faith.

mother.

When I finally managed to approach her weeks later, could only weep and hold me while she confessed through broken sobs that she had endured the same treatment.

She had hoped, she said, that times would change, that I might somehow escape the fate that had befallen generations of women in our family.

But father’s power was absolute, and there was nowhere to run within the confines of our isolated world.

I spent those dark months in a state of complete spiritual crisis, questioning everything I had ever believed about Allah, about family, about the purpose of human existence.

If this was the will of God, then God was either powerless to help me or took pleasure in my suffering.

Either possibility filled me with despair so deep that death seemed like a mercy I was being denied.

The months that followed my wedding night blurred together in a haze of despair and desperate searching.

During the rare moments when I was left alone, I found myself turning to the one place that had always been forbidden to me with such intensity, the internet.

The palace had wireless access for the family’s use, though it was heavily monitored and filtered.

But in my desperation, I began to find ways around those restrictions using techniques I learned from fragments of conversations I overheard from younger cousins who were more technologically savvy.

Late at night, when the palace grew quiet, and my capttors finally left me in peace, I would huddle under my blankets with a tablet.

Its screen dimmed to barely visible levels.

My heart would pound with terror at the thought of being caught, but my spiritual hunger had grown stronger than my fear.

I began searching for answers to questions that I had never dared ask before.

Why did Allah allow such suffering? Were there other interpretations of faith that did not require such cruelty? Did God truly want women to endure what I was enduring? My first searches were tentative and still rooted in Islamic thinking.

I looked for progressive Islamic scholars who might offer different perspectives on women’s rights within the faith.

I found some comfort in discovering that there were Muslims around the world who condemned the kind of treatment I was receiving, who argued that such practices violated the true spirit of Islam.

But even these more enlightened voices seemed to offer little hope for someone trapped as completely as I was.

It was during one of these late night searches that I first encountered Christian websites.

Initially, I stumbled upon them accidentally while looking for information about women’s rights in religion.

The first Christian testimony I read was from a woman in Pakistan who had converted from Islam to Christianity after experiencing abuse within her family.

Her story resonated with my own in ways that both comforted and terrified me.

The terror came from a lifetime of conditioning that taught me Christianity was a corrupted faith.

that Jesus was merely a prophet who had been wrongly elevated to divinity by misguided followers.

To even read Christian materials felt like a betrayal of everything I had been taught to believe.

Yet the comfort was undeniable.

This woman wrote about finding peace and dignity in her relationship with Jesus Christ, about discovering that God saw her as precious and valuable rather than as property to be used by men.

I found myself returning to Christian websites night after night, drawn by stories of transformation and hope that seemed impossible within my current understanding of faith.

The more I read, the more I began to notice fundamental differences between the Jesus described in these testimonies and the Allah I had worshiped all my life.

Jesus seemed to actively seek out the broken and suffering.

He elevated women rather than subjugating them.

He spoke about love and redemption rather than punishment and submission.

One night, I discovered a website that featured testimonies specifically from Muslim women who had converted to Christianity.

Each story was more powerful than the last.

Women who had escaped forced marriages, who had found freedom from oppressive religious systems, who had discovered that God loved them not because of their obedience, but simply because they existed.

I read these stories with tears streaming down my face, hardly daring to believe that such sh such transformation was possible.

The internal war that began raging within my mind and heart was almost unbearable.

Every instinct I possessed, every belief that had been drilled into me from childhood screamed that I was committing the unforgivable sin of sherk by even considering that Jesus might be more than a prophet.

The fear of eternal damnation was so deeply ingrained in my psyche that sometimes I would delete my browsing history and bow never to look at such materials again.

But the spiritual hunger was stronger than the fear.

Each day brought fresh humiliation and abuse from father and my husband, and with each passing day, the god of Islam seemed more distant and uncaring.

My prayers felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling, meeting nothing but silence in response.

The Allah I had worshiped seemed either powerless to help me or actively endorsing my suffering as some kind of divine punishment for sins I could not identify.

So I’m asking you, when you’re drowning in darkness so complete that you cannot see any hope of rescue, does it matter what lifeline is thrown to you? For me, that lifeline began to take the shape of Jesus Christ, though I was too afraid to reach for it directly.

My first tentative prayer to Jesus came during a particularly brutal night in late 2016.

Father had been especially cruel, and my husband had shown a level of cruelty that left me broken both physically and emotionally.

As I lay alone afterward, my body aching and my spirit completely shattered, I found myself whispering words I had never spoken before.

Jesus, I whispered into the darkness, barely audible even to myself.

If you are real, if you truly love women as these stories say, please help me.

I don’t know if you can hear me.

and I don’t know if praying to you is sending me to hell, but I have nowhere else to turn.

The response was immediate and completely unexpected.

Instead of the crushing guilt and fear I expected to feel, I experienced a warm sensation that seemed to envelop my entire body.

It was not dramatic or overwhelming, but it was unmistakably real.

For the first time in months, I felt a sense of peace that seemed to come from outside myself.

The pain did not disappear, but it became bearable in a way it had never been before.

This experience, both terrified, and encouraged me, I began to pray to Jesus more regularly, though always in secret, and always with tremendous guilt and fear.

I would pray during the day when I was alone, asking him to give me strength to endure whatever fresh horror awaited me.

I would pray at night, asking him to protect my mind and spirit, even if he could not protect my body.

The more I prayed to Jesus, the more I began to notice changes in my perspective.

The despair that had threatened to consume me completely began to lift slightly.

I started to believe against all evidence to the contrary that my situation might not be permanent.

Where Allah had seemed distant and uncaring, Jesus felt present and compassionate.

Where Islamic teachings seemed to justify my suffering.

The Jesus I was learning about actively opposed it.

I began to read the Bible online, starting with the New Testament books that focused specifically on Jesus’ teachings and actions.

The contrast between the Jesus they discovered in scripture and the religious leaders who controlled my life could not have been starker.

Jesus defended women who were caught in adultery rather than condemning them.

He elevated women to positions of respect and dignity.

He spoke harshly against men who abused their power and authority.

The sermon on the mount became my secret refuge.

Jesus words about God’s care for the sparrows and the liies of the field spoke directly to my sense of worthlessness and abandonment.

If God cared for such small and seemingly insignificant creatures, perhaps he cared for me as well.

Jesus promised that those who mourned would be comforted gave me hope that my tears were not falling unnoticed.

I began to understand that the God revealed through Jesus Christ was fundamentally different from the Allah I had worshiped.

This was not merely a difference in names or cultural expressions of the same divine being.

This was a completely different understanding of God’s character and his relationship with humanity.

The God of Jesus Christ seemed to pursue the broken and suffering with active love.

While the Allah of my experience demanded submission and offered little comfort in return, the fear of blasphemy continued to war against my growing attraction to Jesus.

But desperation proved stronger than theological conditioning.

My situation was growing worse rather than better.

Father and my husband were discussing plans to ensure I became pregnant soon, and the thought of bringing a child into this nightmare filled me with horror.

I realized that I was rapidly approaching a point of no return, where escape would become impossible, and my fate would be sealed forever.

It was during this period of escalating desperation that I made the decision to pray to Jesus with complete sincerity.

rather than the tentative guiltridden whispers I had been offering before.

If he was real, if he truly loved me, as the testimonies claimed, then I was ready to trust him completely, regardless of the eternal consequences I had been taught to fear.

September 22nd, 2017.

The date is burned into my memory like a brand, marking the moment when everything I thought I knew about God, faith, and reality was completely transformed.

That night began like so many others during those dark months with father and my husband leaving my room after hours of unspeakable abuse.

I lay on my bed afterward, my body broken and my spirit crushed beyond what I thought was humanly possible to endure.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the spiritual agony that consumed me.

For weeks, I had been praying tentatively to Jesus, experiencing small moments of peace that gave me just enough hope to continue breathing.

But that night, the darkness felt absolute.

Father had been particularly brutal, and my husband had spoken casually about their plans to ensure I conceived soon.

The thought of bringing a child into this nightmare, of raising a daughter who might face the same fate, filled me with such horror that death seemed like mercy.

I remember pulling myself up from the floor where I had collapsed, my legs shaking so violently I could barely stand.

The elaborate silk night gown I wore, once beautiful, was torn and stained with my tears.

I walked to the window of my room and looked out at the desert landscape that stretched endlessly beyond the palace walls.

The moon was full that night, casting everything in silver light that should have been beautiful, but felt cold and mocking.

Standing there at that window, I reached the end of myself completely.

Every prayer I had offered to Allah over the years felt like it had disappeared into an empty void.

Every verse of the Quran I had memorized seemed powerless to help me.

The God I had worshiped my entire life felt either absent or actively complicit in my suffering.

I had nothing left to lose, no reputation to protect, no religious fear that could outweigh my desperation.

I fell to my knees on the marble floor, not in the ritual position prescribed for Islamic prayer, but simply collapsing under the weight of my anguish.

With tears streaming down my face and my whole body trembling, I spoke words that came from the deepest part of my soul.

Jesus, I cried out.

no longer whispering or trying to hide my desperation.

Jesus Christ, if you are real, if you truly exist as more than just a prophet, I need you to save me or let me die.

I cannot endure this anymore.

These men who claim to serve God have destroyed everything good in me.

If you are the God of love that these Christian testimonies describe, please prove it to me now.

I am willing to risk eternal damnation to find out if you are real.

What happened next defies every rational explanation I can offer.

Yet, it remains the most real experience of my entire life.

As soon as those words left my lips, the atmosphere in my room changed completely.

The air itself seemed to shimmer and grow warm, and the light began to appear that had no earthly source.

It was not the harsh brightness of electric lighting or the flickering glow of candles, but something that seemed to emanate peace and safety.

The light grew brighter, but instead of hurting my eyes, it brought comfort unlike anything I had ever experienced.

And then in the center of that radiant glow, I saw him.

Jesus Christ stood before me as real and solid as any person I had ever encountered, yet radiating a presence that was unmistakably divine.

His appearance was nothing like the western artistic depictions I had seen online.

His skin was olive toned, his hair dark and wavy, his features clearly Middle Eastern.

But it was his eyes that captured me completely.

They held depths of compassion and love that made me understand in an instant that I was looking at the face of perfect divine love made manifest.

He was wearing a simple white robe that seemed to glow with its own light.

And when he moved toward me, every step seemed to bring waves of peace that washed over my broken spirit like healing bomb.

But it was when he spoke that I knew beyond any shadow of doubt that this was no hallucination born of desperation or mental breakdown.

Daughter, he said, and his voice carried more love and acceptance than I had ever heard in any human voice.

My precious daughter, I have heard every cry you have uttered.

I have seen every tear you have shed.

I have felt every moment of your pain as if it were my own.

I tried to speak to ask the thousand questions that flooded my mind, but no words would come.

I could only stare at him through my tears as he continued speak in words that reached into the deepest places of my wounded soul.

You are not property to be used and discarded, Jesus said, his eyes never leaving mine.

You are not a vessel for the ambitions of evil men.

You are my beloved daughter, precious beyond measure, created for dignity and love and purpose far greater than the darkness that has surrounded you.

The transformation that began happening within me as he spoke was immediate and profound.

The crushing weight of worthlessness that had pressed down on my spirit for months began to lift.

The voice in my mind that constantly told me I was dirty, broken, and beyond redemption was silenced by his words of love and acceptance.

For the first time since my wedding night, I felt like a human being rather than an object.

Jesus knelt down beside me on that marble floor.

And when he placed his hand on my shoulder, I felt power flowing through his touch that began healing wounds.

I had not even realized they carried.

Not just the physical trauma, though that too began to fade, but the deep spiritual and emotional damage that had convinced me I was beyond hope of rescue.

I know you are afraid, he continued, his voice infinitely gentle.

You have been taught that turning to me means eternal condemnation, but I tell you the truth.

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

I have not come to condemn you, but to set you free from every chain that binds you.

I’m telling you right now, as I felt Jesus’ presence surrounding me like a protective embrace, every lie I had been told about God’s character began crumbling away.

This was not a distant deity demanding submission and offering little in return.

This was perfect love pursuing me in my darkest hour, offering freedom I had never dared to imagine possible.

“Will you trust me?” Jesus asked.

And I knew that my answer to this question would determine not just my earthly future, but the eternal destiny of my soul.

Will you let me carry you out of this darkness into the light I have prepared for you? Without hesitation, I nodded through my tears.

Yes, I whispered, my voice barely audible, but filled with more certainty than I had felt about anything in my entire life.

Yes, Jesus, I trust you completely.

Save me.

The smile that crossed his face at my words was like watching the sun rise after the longest night of winter.

He reached out and touched my forehead.

And in that moment, I felt something fundamental shift within my very identity.

The Muslim girl named Hawa, who had suffered unspeakable abuse, died in that instant, and a new creation, a daughter of the living God, was born.

I will make a way where there seems to be no way.

Jesus promised me, trust in my timing and my methods.

What seems impossible to human understanding is simple for the one who created the universe.

You will walk free from this place and you will carry my message of hope to others who suffer as you have suffered.

The vision began to fade gradually, but the peace Jesus had given me remained as the light dimmed and his physical presence withdrew.

I heard his final words to me.

I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

When you feel afraid, remember this moment.

When you feel alone, know that I am closer than your own breath.

You are mine now, and nothing will snatch you from my hand.

When the room returned to its normal appearance, I was no longer the same person who had knelt there in desperation just minutes before.

I was still physically in the same palace, still legally bound to the same abusive marriage, still surrounded by the same evil men who had tormented me, but spiritually I was already free.

Jesus Christ had claimed me as his own, and I knew with absolute certainty that my rescue was not a matter of if, but when.

That very night, I baptized myself in the bathroom of my room, submerging my head in the marble basin while declaring my faith in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.

The water that washed over me felt like it was washing away not just the physical stains of abuse, but the spiritual contamination of months of suffering.

When I emerged, gasping and praising Jesus in whispered Arabic, I knew I had crossed a line from which there would be no return.

The days following my encounter with Jesus Christ were filled with supernatural peace, even as my external circumstances remained unchanged.

I walked through the palace with a secret that burned bright within my heart, knowing that my rescue was coming, even though I had no earthly reason to believe such a thing was possible.

Every morning when I woke, I would whisper prayers to Jesus, asking him to prepare the way for my escape and to give me strength to endure whatever was necessary until that moment arrived.

3 weeks after my divine encounter on October the 12th, 2017, the first piece of God’s rescue plan began to unfold, father announced that he would be traveling to London for important business meetings with other members of the royal family.

This was not unusual in itself, as he often traveled for diplomatic purposes, but what was unusual was the length of the trip.

He would be gone for nearly two weeks, longer than any previous absence I could remember.

The morning of father’s departure, something extraordinary happened that I can only attribute to divine intervention.

As the family gathered to bid him farewell, a messenger arrived with urgent news for my husband.

His own father, who lived in a neighboring kingdom, had fallen gravely ill, and was requesting his immediate presence.

Family honor demanded that my husband drop everything and travel to his father’s bedside regardless of any other obligations or plans.

I watched this unfold with growing amazement, recognizing the hand of God orchestrating circumstances that would have been impossible for any human to arrange.

Within hours, both of the men who controlled my life would be hundreds of miles away, leaving me with a freedom I had not experienced since my wedding night.

As I stood in the courtyard, watching my husband’s convoy disappear beyond the palace gates, I felt Jesus’s presence surrounding me like an invisible shield of protection.

But God’s planning was even more intricate than I had initially realized.

That same afternoon, a diplomatic vehicle arrived at our palace carrying a family I had never met before.

They were introduced as the ambassador and his family from a European nation, invited by father before his departure to enjoy our traditional hospitality during a cultural exchange visit.

What father did not know, what no one in my family suspected was that this family were devout Christians who had been praying for opportunities to minister to Muslims in the kingdom.

The ambassador’s wife, a gracious woman in her 50s named Catherine, possessed a discernment that I now recognize as a gift of the Holy Spirit.

Within hours of their arrival, she had identified the profound sadness in my eyes, despite my attempts to maintain the proper facade of a contented princess.

During the formal dinner held in their honor, I caught her watching me with an expression of deep concern that had nothing to do with diplomatic protocol.

The next morning, while the male members of both families conducted their official meetings, Catherine approached me in the palace gardens where I often walked alone.

Her opening words still echo in my memory as one of the most beautiful confirmations of God’s love I have ever received.

My dear, she said in flawless Arabic, placing a gentle hand on my arm, I have been praying about you since the moment we met.

The Holy Spirit has shown me that you are carrying a burden far heavier than any young woman should bear.

I want you to know that you are not alone and that there are people who care about what happens to you.

I stared at her in shock, unsure how to respond to such unexpected kindness from a stranger.

My first instinct was to deflect her concern with polite reassurances, as I had been trained to do my entire life.

But something in her eyes, a depth of compassion that reminded me of Jesus’s expression during my vision, made me hesitate.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said carefully, glancing around to ensure we were not being overheard by any palace staff.

Catherine smiled with the patience of someone accustomed to working with traumatized individuals.

I understand your caution, she replied by, but I want you to know that my husband and I represent an organization that helps women who find themselves in impossible situations.

We have resources and connections that extend far beyond what most people realize.

If you ever need help, real help, there are people who will risk everything to ensure your safety.

Over the next 3 days, Catherine and I had several carefully orchestrated conversations in locations throughout the palace where we could speak freely without electronic surveillance.

She never pressured me to reveal details of my situation, but her gentle questions and compassionate responses gradually drew out fragments of my story when I finally confessed that I had recently given my life to Jesus Christ.

Her face lit up with joy that seemed to illuminate the entire room.

“I knew it,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

I could sense the Holy Spirit within you from the moment we met.

God has been preparing both of us for this meeting, hasn’t he? It was Catherine who revealed to me the existence of an underground network of Christians who specialized in helping Muslim women escape abusive situations and religious persecution.

This network operated across multiple countries, funded by churches and Christian organizations who understood that the great commission sometimes required more than just preaching and evangelism.

Sometimes it required direct action to rescue God’s children from modern forms of slavery.

There are safe houses, Catherine explained during one of our secret meetings in the palace library.

There are Christian families who will take you in and protect you while you establish a new identity, a new life.

There are legal experts who specialize in asylum cases involving religious persecution.

Most importantly, there are people who understand that your decision to follow Jesus Christ makes you a target for honor killing and who are prepared to do whatever is necessary to ensure your survival.

The escape plan that Catherine outlined seemed both incredibly complex and impossibly simple.

On the night of October 15th, during the new moon, when darkness would provide maximum cover, I would slip out of my room and make my way to a predetermined location on the palace grounds.

A vehicle would be waiting to transport me to a private airfield where a chartered flight would take me to a country that did not have extradition treaties with Saudi Arabia for cases involving religious persecution.

Ask yourself this question.

Do you believe God can move mountains? Because in the days leading up to my escape, I watched him move mountains that should have been immovable.

The palace security system, which had never malfunctioned in all the years I had lived there, began experiencing mysterious technical difficulties.

Cameras would malfunction at precisely the moments when I needed to move through areas undetected.

Motion sensors would fail to trigger when I passed by them during my practice runs through the escape route.

The guard dogs that normally patrolled the palace grounds, animals trained to attack intruders without hesitation, became inexplicably docsile whenever I approached them during my nighttime reconnaissance missions.

These were not normal behavioral changes that could be explained by coincidence or luck.

These were supernatural interventions that cleared the path for my escape in ways that no human planning could have accomplished.

On the afternoon of October 15th, as I prepared for what I hoped would be my last night in that palace of horrors, mother came to my room for what she somehow knew would be our final conversation.

She had grown increasingly suspicious of my recent behavior, noting a piece in my demeanor that she could not explain given the circumstances of my life.

“You are planning something,” she said, not as an accusation, but as a statement of fact, tinged with both fear and hope.

“I can see it in your eyes.

You have found something that I have never been able to find.

” I took her hands in mine knowing that I could not leave without offering her the same hope that Jesus had given me.

Mother, I have found the way to freedom.

Not just physical freedom, but spiritual freedom that can transform everything, even if our external circumstances don’t change.

Through tears, I told her about my encounter with Jesus Christ, about the peace and love I had discovered, about the rescue that was coming that very night.

I begged her to come with me, to step out in faith and trust Jesus to make a way for both of us.

But mother, worn down by decades of abuse and conditioning, could not summon the courage to take such a leap.

I am too old, too broken, she said through her tears.

But you, my precious daughter, you still have life ahead of you.

Go and know that you carry my love and my prayers with you wherever this new life takes you.

As the sun set on October 15th, I completed my final preparations for escape.

I dressed in the darkest clothing I owned and packed only the most essential items in a small bag that I could carry easily.

At midnight, I knelt one final time in that room where I had suffered so much and where Jesus had revealed himself to me, offering a prayer of gratitude for his faithfulness and a petition for protection during the dangerous hours ahead.

The escape itself unfolded like a carefully choreographed dance directed by an invisible conductor.

Every step I took was covered by miraculous circumstances that defied natural explanation.

And when I reached the predetermined meeting point in the palace gardens, Catherine’s husband was waiting exactly as promised, and the expression on his face told me that he too had witnessed God’s supernatural intervention throughout this rescue operation.

The first breath of free air I breathed outside the borders of Saudi Arabia felt like being resurrected from the dead.

When our plane touched down in Cyprus on October 16th, 2017, I collapsed to my knees on the tarmac and wept tears of gratitude that seemed to pour from the deepest wells of my soul.

The Mediterranean sun on my face, the salt air in my lungs, the knowledge that I was beyond the reach of father and my husband created a euphoria that words cannot adequately describe.

Catherine and her husband had arranged for me to stay with a Christian family in Limasol who specialized in helping religious refugees transition to their new lives.

The Giorgio family welcomed me into their home as if I were their own daughter returning from a long and dangerous journey.

Mrs.

Giorgio, a woman whose own grandmother had fled persecution in Turkey decades earlier, understood the unique challenges facing someone who had left behind not just an abusive family, but an entire cultural and religious identity.

My first Sunday morning in their home, they invited me to attend church with them.

I had never been inside a Christian worship service before, and the experience overwhelmed me in ways I had not anticipated.

The moment we walked through the doors of that small Orthodox church, I felt the presence of Jesus Christ in a way that was both familiar and completely new.

The icons on the walls, the incense rising toward the domed ceiling, the voices of the congregation singing ancient hymns in Greek created an atmosphere of worship that spoke to something deep within my spirit.

When the priest began reading from the Gospel of Luke about Jesus healing the brokenhearted and setting captives free, I understood that these words were not mere historical accounts, but living promises that had been fulfilled in my own life.

As the congregation recited the Nyian creed declaring their belief in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, I joined my voice with theirs in Arabic.

Publicly confessing my faith for the first time, surrounded by fellow believers, the healing journey that began in that church service would take months to unfold fully.

The trauma counselor that the Gihou family connected me with, a Christian woman who had worked extensively with survivors of religious persecution, helped me understand that my body and mind would need time to process the horror I had endured, the nightmares that plagued my sleep, the panic attacks that would strike without warning, the deep shame that made me feel dirty and worthless despite Jesus’ love were all normal.

mal responses to abnormal cruelty.

But with each passing week, as I immersed myself in Bible study and Christian fellowship, the healing became more evident.

The Christian community in Cyprus embraced me with a love that demonstrated the reality of what Jesus had taught about the family of believers transcending biological and cultural boundaries.

These people who had never known me before my escape treated me with more genuine care and respect than I had received from my own royal family.

Learning to read the Bible in my own language became one of my greatest joys during those early months of freedom.

The Arabic Bible that Mrs.

Gijo gave me became my constant companion and I would spend hours each day discovering the depths of God’s love revealed through scripture.

The Psalms of David resonated particularly deeply with my experience as I recognized in his words the same journey from despair to deliverance that I had traveled 6 months after my escape.

I made the decision to be baptized publicly in the Mediterranean Sea.

The symbolism was not lost on any of us who gathered on that beach on a warm April morning in 2018.

I was choosing to die to my old identity as how the Saudi princess and be raised to new life as how the daughter of Jesus Christ.

As pastor Dimmitri lowered me beneath the waves and raised me up again, I felt the final chains of my former life breaking away forever.

The pastor’s words as I emerged from the water still echo in my heart.

You have been buried with Christ in baptism and raised with him through faith in the power of God.

You are no longer a slave to fear, but a daughter of the most high God.

The small congregation that had gathered on the beach erupted in celebration.

And I knew that I was experiencing the joy that scripture describes as existing in heaven when one sinner repents and comes home.

It was during my second year of freedom that God began to reveal the ministry purpose for which he had rescued me.

Through the same underground network that had facilitated my escape, I began to receive requests for help from other Muslim women trapped in similar situations.

Some were facing forced marriages.

Others were being persecuted for secret conversions to Christianity.

and still others were suffering various forms of abuse justified by twisted interpretations of Islamic law.

My first involvement in helping another woman escape came when I received a message through encrypted channels from a young Pakistani woman whose family was planning to kill her for converting to Christianity.

Using contacts I had developed through my own rescue network, I was able to help coordinate her escape to a safe house in Europe.

When I saw her face on a video call after she reached safety, radiant with the same joy and freedom I had experienced, I knew that God was calling me to make this work my life’s mission.

The risks involved in this ministry are real and ongoing.

My father’s influence extends far beyond Saudi Arabia’s borders, and there have been multiple attempts to locate me and force my return.

I have had to move several times when intelligence sources indicated that my location had been compromised.

I live under an unassumed identity and maintain strict security protocols that limit my freedom of movement and association.

But the risks pale in comparison to the joy of seeing other women discover the same freedom in Jesus Christ that transformed my own life.

Over the past several years, I have been directly involved in helping more than 30 women escape situations of religious persecution and abuse.

Each rescue operation requires months of careful planning and coordination with Christian organizations across multiple countries.

But watching these women take their first steps into freedom makes every danger worthwhile.

I’m asking you today as you listen to my story to consider the reality that there are millions of women around the world who are trapped in situations similar to what I experienced.

They live under religious and cultural systems that treat them as property rather than as human beings created in God’s image.

And many of them are crying out to heaven for rescue just as I did on that desperate night in September 2017.

Some of these women have heard whispers about Jesus Christ and are curious about whether the freedom they see in Christian testimonies could be real for them as well.

Others have never heard the name of Jesus spoken with love and hope only as a curse or as a name of a false prophet.

But all of them need to know that there is a God who sees their suffering and who has the power to set them free.

The ministry I am involved with now operate safe houses in seven countries and has facilitated the rescue of hundreds of women over the past decade.

We provide not just physical escape routes, but comprehensive support systems that include trauma counseling, legal assistance for asylum claims, job training programs, and most importantly, spiritual mentorship for those who want to learn more about Jesus Christ.

One of the most powerful aspects of this work is witnessing the ripple effects of each successful rescue.

Women who find freedom in Christ become beacons of hope for their friends and relatives who remain trapped.

They find ways to share their testimonies through social media and encrypted communication channels, spreading the message that freedom is possible and that Jesus Christ offers a love that transcends cultural and religious boundaries.

The woman I have become through this journey bears little resemblance to the terrified princess who knelt in desperation on a palace floor 7 years ago.

Jesus Christ has not only rescued me from physical and spiritual bondage, but has transformed me into someone who can offer hope to others walking through similar valleys of darkness.

The pain I endured has become the foundation for a ministry that brings glory to God and freedom to his daughters around the world.

If Jesus can save a Saudi princess from the depths of hell on earth, he can save anyone.

He can save the woman listening to this testimony who believes her situation is hopeless.

He can save the man who thinks his sins are too great for forgiveness.

He can save the teenager who has been told that questioning religious authority means eternal damnation.

He can save you right now exactly where you are.

The same Jesus who appeared to me in that palace room is calling your name today.

You don’t have to stay trapped in whatever prison you’re in.

Whether it’s physical, emotional, spiritual, or psychological.

Jesus has the key to every lock that binds you and he is waiting for you to call out to him with the same desperation and faith that I expressed on September 22nd, 2017.