My name is Princess Janat.

I was 24 years old when everything changed on September 7th, 2019.

I had been a devoted Muslim my entire life.

Born into the Saudi royal family.

I was sentenced to death for refusing to burn a Bible.

But Jesus had other plans for my life.

I was born into privilege that most people can only dream of.

As a princess of the Saudi royal family, my days were structured around the pillars of Islam from the moment I could speak.

Before dawn, I would hear the call to prayer echoing through the marble corridors of our palace, and I would rise without hesitation to perform my morning prayers.

This was not just routine for me.

This was my identity, my purpose, my entire world.

My father had raised me to be the perfect Muslim daughter.

I memorized the Quran by the age of 12, could recite verses in perfect Arabic, and understood the intricate details of Islamic law better than many religious scholars.

My mother would beam with pride when I led prayers for the women in our family, and my younger sisters looked up to me as their spiritual guide.

I wore my hijab with dignity, observed every fast during Ramadan with devotion, and gave generously to charity as Islam commanded.

Have you ever felt completely certain about your faith? That was me.

I thought I knew God completely through Islam.

Every prayer, every verse, every teaching felt like absolute truth flowing through my veins.

I was not just practicing religion.

I was living it, breathing it, becoming it.

The palace walls were lined with beautiful calligraphy of Quranic verses, and I would walk past them each day, silently reciting their meanings, feeling connected to Allah in ways that filled my heart with peace.

As a royal family member, I understood that I was more than just a princess.

I was a symbol.

Young Muslim women across our kingdom looked to me as an example of how to live faithfully in the modern world.

When I appeared at public events, dressed modestly but elegantly, speaking about the beauty of Islamic teachings, I could see hope in their eyes.

They wanted to follow my path to find the same spiritual fulfillment I seemed to possess.

My daily schedule was a testament to devotion.

Five times each day, I would stop whatever royal duties I was performing to answer the call to prayer.

Between these sacred moments, I studied Islamic theology with the most respected scholars in the kingdom.

They would visit our palace library, a vast room filled with ancient texts and modern interpretations of Islamic law, and we would discuss the deeper meanings of faith for hours.

But everything changed on a Tuesday afternoon in late August 2019.

I was walking through one of the lesser used wings of our palace, heading to meet with my tutor for an afternoon lesson in Islamic juristprudence.

The hallway was quiet with afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows, casting long shadows on the ornate carpets beneath my feet.

That’s when I saw it.

Tucked between two cushions on an antique sofa in a small sitting room was a black book.

At first, I thought it might be a Quran that someone had misplaced, though the size seemed different as I approached to return it to its proper place.

My heart nearly stopped.

The golden letters on the cover spelled out words that made my blood run cold.

Holy Bible.

My hands began to tremble as I stared at this forbidden object.

In Saudi Arabia, possessing a Bible was not just illegal.

It was an act of rebellion against everything our kingdom stood for.

I knew I should immediately call the palace guards, report the discovery, and have the book destroyed according to our laws.

That’s what any faithful Muslim would do.

That’s what I had been trained to do my entire life.

But something stopped me.

Maybe it was curiosity.

Maybe it was the way the afternoon light seemed to fall directly on the book’s cover.

Maybe it was something deeper that I couldn’t understand at the time.

Instead of calling for help, I quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching.

Then picked up the Bible and held it against my chest.

My heart was beating so fast I thought it might burst.

Every fiber of my Islamic upbringing screamed at me to drop the book immediately.

I could hear my father’s voice in my mind, warning me about the corruption of Christian texts.

I could see my mother’s disappointed face if she knew what I was holding.

But my hands wouldn’t let go.

I rushed to my private chambers, dismissed my attendance early, and locked the door behind me.

The Bible felt impossibly heavy in my hands as I sat on my bed, staring at its cover.

For several minutes, I just held it, afraid to open it, afraid of what I might find inside.

When I finally opened to the first page, my hands were shaking so violently I could barely read the words.

But as my eyes focused on the text, something extraordinary happened.

The words didn’t seem foreign or threatening.

They seemed to call to something deep within my soul that I didn’t even know existed.

I read about creation, about God’s love for humanity, about promises and prophecies that sounded both familiar and completely new.

Hours passed without my realizing it.

When my evening prayer time arrived, I reluctantly closed the Bible and hid it beneath my mattress.

But my mind remained consumed by what I had read.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The words from the Bible echoed in my thoughts, mixing with the Quranic verses I had known since childhood.

Instead of conflict, I felt an strange sense of completion, as if pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving were beginning to fit together.

My hands shook as I touched those forbidden pages for the first time.

But something inside me couldn’t stop reading.

Every night for the next two weeks became a secret journey into this mysterious book that was transforming my understanding of God in ways I never thought possible.

For two weeks, I lived a double life that was slowly tearing me apart.

During the day, I maintained my perfect princess facade, leading prayers with my family, discussing Islamic theology with visiting scholars, and fulfilling my royal duties with the same devotion I had always shown.

But every night after the palace grew quiet and the last call to prayer had echoed through the halls, I would retrieve that hidden Bible from beneath my mattress and lose myself in its pages.

The more I read, the more my world began to shift.

I discovered verses that spoke of God’s love in ways I had never encountered before.

In John 3:16, I read that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life.

These words hit me like lightning.

The God I was reading about didn’t seem distant or demanding.

He seemed personal, loving, willing to sacrifice everything for humanity.

I found myself reading about Jesus.

This man who claimed to be the son of God, who performed miracles, who spoke with such authority about love and forgiveness.

In the Islamic teachings of my childhood, Jesus was acknowledged as a prophet, but this was different.

The Bible presented him as something far greater, as God himself walking among humanity.

The idea both terrified and fascinated me.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever felt your entire world view crumbling beneath your feet while simultaneously feeling more alive than ever before? That was my reality during those secret reading sessions.

Every page challenged everything I thought I knew about God, about salvation, about the purpose of life itself.

The dream started during my third week of reading.

I would fall asleep with verses about Jesus floating through my mind, and then I would dream of a figure in white robes with kind eyes that seemed to see straight through to my soul.

He never spoke in these dreams, but his presence filled me with a peace I had never experienced, even in my deepest moments of Islamic prayer and meditation.

One night, as I was reading the book of Isaiah, I came across chapter 53, which spoke of a suffering servant who would bear the sins of many.

The description was so vivid, so heartbreaking that tears began streaming down my face.

Something deep within me recognized this suffering servant as Jesus.

And for the first time in my life, I understood what it might mean for someone to die for the sins of others.

But my secret couldn’t last forever.

Palace life involves constant observation, subtle surveillance disguised as care and protection.

There are always servants moving through the corridors, family members checking on each other, security personnel maintaining vigilant watch over every member of the royal family.

It was my youngest sister who discovered my secret.

She had come to my chambers early one morning to borrow a piece of jewelry for a family gathering.

I was still asleep, exhausted from another late night of reading, and I hadn’t properly hidden the Bible.

She found it partially visible beneath my pillow when she tried to wake me.

The scream that escaped her lips when she saw the Bible’s cover will haunt me forever.

It wasn’t just surprise or shock.

It was pure terror, as if she had discovered a venomous snake coiled in my bed.

She stumbled backward, pointing at the book with a trembling finger, unable to form words for several long moments.

When she finally found her voice, she whispered, “Yanat, what is that? Why do you have a Bible?” Her eyes were wide with disbelief and fear as if she was looking at a stranger rather than the sister who had braided her hair and taught her prayers since she was a little girl.

I tried to explain, tried to calm her down, but she was already running from my room, calling for our mother.

The look of betrayal in my sister’s eyes still haunts me.

In that moment, I realized I wasn’t just risking my own life.

I was shattering the trust and faith of everyone who loved me.

Within minutes, my mother burst into my chambers, followed by two of my brothers and several palace guards.

The Bible was still lying on my bed where my sister had pointed it out, and my mother’s face went completely pale when she saw it.

She approached the book as if it were radioactive, afraid to even touch it.

“Janat,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Tell me this isn’t yours.

Tell me you didn’t bring this into our home.

” The pain in her voice was unbearable.

This woman who had raised me, who had taught me to love Allah, who had been so proud of my Islamic devotion, was staring at evidence that her daughter had betrayed everything she held sacred.

My brothers immediately began questioning me.

Where had I gotten the Bible? How long had I been reading it? Had I been in contact with Christians? Had I been converting? Their voices grew louder and more aggressive as they realized I wasn’t denying ownership of the book.

The palace guards stood silently by the door, but their presence made everything feel more serious, more dangerous.

This wasn’t just a family discussion anymore.

This was a potential matter of state security and religious law.

My oldest brother finally picked up the Bible with obvious disgust and held it out toward me.

Burn it, he commanded.

Burn it right now, and we’ll never speak of this again.

Well, tell father you found it and immediately destroyed it like any faithful Muslim would do.

But I couldn’t do it.

Even as I saw the hope in my mother’s eyes, even as I realized this was my chance to make everything go back to normal.

I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the book that had opened my heart to a new understanding of God.

I can’t, I whispered.

The silence that followed those two words was deafening.

My mother began to cry softly.

My brothers exchanged looks of disbelief and growing anger.

The palace guards shifted uncomfortably, understanding that this situation was escalating beyond a simple family matter.

That’s when my oldest brother made the decision that would change everything.

We have to tell father, he said grimly.

This is beyond what we can handle alone.

The look of betrayal in my father’s eyes when they brought me before him that afternoon still haunts me.

Here was a man who had raised me to be the perfect Muslim daughter, who had trusted me to represent our family and our faith with honor, discovering that I had been secretly reading the very book that represented everything our kingdom stood against.

The emergency family meeting took place in my father’s private study, a room I had always associated with important matters of state and serious conversations about the kingdom’s future.

The walls were lined with ancient Islamic texts and portraits of our ancestors, all of whom had been devout Muslims who had ruled with unwavering faith.

As I stood before my father’s massive wooden desk, I felt the weight of centuries of Islamic tradition pressing down on my shoulders.

My father didn’t speak for a long time.

He simply stared at the Bible that my brother had placed on his desk, as if he couldn’t believe such an object had been found in his own home.

When he finally looked up at me, his eyes held a mixture of disappointment, anger, and something that looked almost like grief.

“Yanat,” he said slowly, his voice heavy with emotion.

“Explain to me how this came to be in your possession.

” His tone was controlled, but I could hear the fury burning beneath his calm exterior.

This was not just my father speaking.

This was the king of Saudi Arabia, defender of the Islamic faith, confronted with evidence that his own daughter had committed an act of apostasy.

I tried to explain how I had found the Bible, how curiosity had led me to read it, but every word I spoke seemed to make his expression darker.

When I mentioned that I had been reading it for weeks, my mother gasped audibly from her chair near the window.

She had been crying silently since entering the room, and now her sobs became more pronounced.

“You have been reading Christian propaganda for weeks,” my father said, his voice rising.

“In my house, under my roof while pretending to be a faithful Muslim daughter.

He stood up from his chair, his tall frame imposing as he walked around to the desk to face me directly.

Do you understand what you have done? Do you comprehend the magnitude of your betrayal?” The religious leaders arrived within the hour.

Three of the kingdom’s most respected Islamic scholars filed into the study, their faces grave as they were briefed on the situation.

I recognized each of them from years of religious instruction.

Men who had taught me advanced Islamic theology, who had praised my understanding of the Quran, who had held me up as an example of faithful Muslim youth.

The chief imam approached me with a mixture of sadness and determination.

Princess Janat, he said formally, we are here to help you return to the straight path.

What you have done is serious, but Allah is merciful to those who repent sincerely.

For the next 3 hours, they took turns trying to convince me that I had been deceived by Christian lies.

They quoted Quranic verses about the corruption of previous scriptures, explained Islamic teachings about Jesus being only a prophet, and warned me about the eternal consequences of abandoning Islam.

Each argument was delivered with scholarly precision and genuine concern for my spiritual well-being.

But something had changed inside me during those weeks of reading the Bible.

Every verse they quoted seemed to pale in comparison to the words of Jesus that had burned themselves into my heart.

When they spoke of Allah’s mercy, I thought of the God who had sacrificed his own son for humanity.

When they warned of punishment for apostasy, I remembered reading about forgiveness that was freely given, not earned through perfect adherence to religious law.

My mother pleaded with me through her tears.

Janat, please, she begged, just say you were confused, that you didn’t understand what you were reading.

Say you renounced these Christian lies and return to Islam.

We can fix this.

We can make this go away.

But I couldn’t lie anymore.

The truth had taken root too deeply in my soul.

I can’t renounce what I believe is true, I said quietly.

I’ve read the Bible and I believe Jesus is who he says he is.

The room fell into stunned silence.

My father’s face turned red with anger and humiliation.

Here was his daughter, a princess of Saudi Arabia, openly declaring her belief in Christian doctrine in front of the kingdom’s highest religious authorities.

Ask yourself what you would do in that moment when everything you’ve ever known, everyone you’ve ever loved, is staring at you with horror and disappointment.

Would you have the courage to stand firm in newfound faith? I barely recognized my own voice as I continued speaking.

I have seen Jesus in my dreams, I said, my voice growing stronger despite my trembling body.

I felt his love in ways I never experienced before.

I can’t pretend that didn’t happen.

I can’t go back to the way things were.

The chief imam’s expression hardened.

Princess, you are speaking of shik, the greatest sin in Islam.

You are attributing divinity to someone other than Allah.

This is not a matter of interpretation or confusion.

This is clear apostasy.

My father returned to his desk and sat down heavily, suddenly looking older than his years.

When he spoke again, his voice was cold and formal.

Janat, you have 48 hours to make a decision.

Tomorrow evening, we will hold a public ceremony in the palace courtyard.

You will burn that Bible in front of our family, religious leaders, and representatives of the kingdom.

you will publicly renounce any Christian beliefs and reaffirm your commitment to Islam.

He paused and the weight of his next word settled over the room like a death sentence.

If you refuse to do this, if you persist in this apostasy, I will have no choice but to follow Islamic law.

The penalty for apostasy in our kingdom is death.

And not even my love for you as a daughter can override the requirements of our faith.

My mother’s sobbs became uncontrollable.

My brothers looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

The religious leaders nodded grimly, understanding that my father had made the only decision available to him under Islamic law.

You have 48 hours, my father repeated, “Use them wisely.

Pray to Allah for guidance.

Speak with the imams.

Consider what you are willing to sacrifice for these foreign ideas that have poisoned your mind.

” As the guards escorted me back to my chambers, now under constant watch, I realized the full gravity of my situation.

I had 48 hours to choose between my life and my newfound faith in Jesus Christ.

The little girl who had once memorized the Quran to please her father was gone forever, replaced by someone who had tasted truth and could never go back to living a lie.

That night, as I knelt in my room with the Bible hidden beneath my prayer rug, I prayed to Jesus with desperate intensity.

I asked him for the strength to face whatever was coming, for the courage to stand firm in faith, for peace in the midst of the storm that was about to break over my life.

Each step toward that Bible felt like walking toward my destiny.

And I knew that in less than 48 hours I would discover what I was truly made of.

The 48 hours my father had given me felt both like an eternity and like minutes racing by.

I was confined to my chambers under constant guard with palace security stationed outside my door around the clock.

The luxury that had surrounded me my entire life suddenly felt like a beautiful prison.

and every ornate decoration in my room seemed to mock the decision I was facing.

Sleep became impossible.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw two images competing for my attention.

The disappointed face of my father and the loving eyes of Jesus from my dreams.

My mind raced between fear of death and an inexplicable peace that seemed to flow through me whenever I thought about the Bible verses I had memorized.

The words from John’s gospel kept echoing in my thoughts.

Do not let your hearts be troubled.

You believe in God, believe also in me.

On the first morning of my confinement, my mother came to visit.

She entered my room with red, swollen eyes, looking as if she hadn’t slept at all.

She sat on the edge of my bed and took my hands in hers.

And for a moment, I was just her little girl again, the daughter she had rocked to sleep with laabis and Quranic verses.

“Janut, my precious daughter,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Please tell me you’re going to come to your senses.

Please tell me you’re going to burn that book tomorrow and return to us.

Her grip on my hands tightened.

I cannot lose you.

I cannot watch my own daughter die for this madness.

I wanted so desperately to comfort her, to tell her what she wanted to hear, to spare her the pain that was written across her face.

But every time I opened my mouth to agree, to promise I would renounce my faith in Jesus, the words wouldn’t come.

Something deep inside me had been permanently changed, and I could no more deny Jesus than I could deny my own heartbeat.

“Mother,” I said gently, “I love you more than you could ever know.

But I can’t pretend that I haven’t found truth.

I can’t burn a book that has shown me who God really is.

She began to cry again harder this time, and I held her as she sobbed against my shoulder.

“Where did I go wrong?” she whispered.

“How did I fail to raise you properly in the faith? What kind of mother am I that my daughter would choose death over Islam?” My oldest brother visited next, bringing with him one of my former Quranic tutors.

They spent hours trying to convince me that I was experiencing a temporary crisis of faith, something that could be overcome with proper guidance and prayer.

The tutor, a kind man who had taught me Islamic theology since childhood, spoke with genuine concern about the eternal consequences of apostasy.

Princess Janat, he said, you have always been one of my most promising students.

Your understanding of Islamic law and Quranic interpretation surpassed students twice your age.

Surely you remember our discussions about the corruption of previous scriptures.

You know that the Bible has been changed and distorted over the centuries.

I listened respectfully, but his words seemed to bounce off something solid that had formed in my heart.

I remember those teachings, I replied.

But when I read the Bible myself, it didn’t feel corrupted.

It felt alive, true, complete in ways I had never experienced before.

My brother grew frustrated with my responses.

Yanut, you’re talking about feelings instead of facts.

You’re letting emotions override years of proper Islamic education.

This is exactly how Satan deceives people by making falsehood feel true.

But I had moved beyond the realm where theological arguments could reach me.

Every verse they quoted from the Quran, every logical point they made about Islamic doctrine seemed to pale in comparison to the simple reality of Jesus’s love that I had experienced.

I couldn’t explain it in academic terms, couldn’t defend it with scholarly debate, but I knew it was real with a certainty that transcended intellectual understanding.

As the hours passed, more family members came to plead with me.

My younger sisters visited together, weeping and begging me to choose life.

My cousins, aunts, and uncles took turns trying to convince me that I was throwing away everything meaningful for a temporary delusion.

Each conversation broke my heart a little more, but it also strengthened my resolve.

Have you ever experienced something so real, so transformative that you would be willing to die rather than deny it? That was my reality.

As the second day of my confinement began, I was facing the loss of everything I had ever known.

My family, my position, my very life.

But the thought of denying Jesus felt like spiritual suicide, like cutting away the most vital part of my soul.

On the afternoon before the ceremony, the chief Imam returned for one final attempt at conversion.

He was accompanied by two other religious scholars, and their approach was more forceful than before.

They spoke of hellfire awaiting apostates, of the shame I would bring upon my family name, of the political consequences my decision could have for the kingdom.

You are not just risking your own soul.

The chief Imam declared, “You are endangering the faith of other young Muslims who look up to you.

If a princess of Saudi Arabia can abandon Islam, what message does that send to the faithful?” “Your apostasy could lead others astray.

” His words hit me harder than any previous argument had.

The thought that my decision might somehow harm others faith was almost overwhelming.

But then I remembered Jesus’s words about being a light to the world, about not hiding truth under a bushel basket.

Maybe my willingness to stand for Jesus even unto death could actually strengthen others who were secretly seeking truth.

That final evening, as sunset prayers echoed through the palace, I was alone except for the guards outside my door.

I had been given my last meal, though I could barely eat anything.

My stomach was knotted with fear and anticipation.

But my heart was surprisingly calm.

I spent the entire night in prayer, sometimes kneeling on my prayer rug, as I had done thousands of times before, sometimes lying face down on the floor in complete surrender to whatever God’s will might be.

I found myself reciting Bible verses I had memorized, particularly Psalm 23.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

As dawn approached on September 7th, 2019, I heard the guards changing shift outside my door.

Soon they would come to escort me to the courtyard for the public ceremony.

I would be given one final opportunity to choose between the Bible and my life.

I had never felt more afraid and more peaceful at the same time.

Jesus whispered to my heart during those final pre-dawn moments, “Do not fear.

I am with you.

And somehow miraculously, I believed him completely.

The time for choosing had arrived, and I knew exactly what my choice would be.

The guards came for me at sunrise.

I had been awake all night, praying and reading the Bible, verses I had memorized, preparing my heart for what I knew would be my final moments on earth.

When they opened my chamber door, I was kneeling in prayer, and for a brief second, I saw something like respect flash across the lead guard’s face before his expression returned to professional stoicism.

Princess, it is time, he said quietly.

They had brought me a simple white robe to wear, traditionally worn by those facing execution in our kingdom.

As I put it on, my hands were surprisingly steady.

The fear I had expected to overwhelm me was present, but it was overshadowed by a supernatural peace that I can only describe as Jesus holding my heart in his hands.

The walk through the palace corridors felt surreal.

These halls had been my playground as a child, the backdrop for countless family gatherings and royal celebrations.

Now I was walking through them for what I believed would be the last time.

Each step echoed off the marble floors, creating a rhythm that seemed to match my heartbeat.

As we approached the main courtyard, I could hear the murmur of voices growing louder.

When the massive doors opened, I was struck by the size of the crowd that had assembled.

This wasn’t just a family affair.

Representatives from the religious establishment, government officials, palace staff, and even some members of the media were present.

My father had clearly decided that my recantation needed to be as public as possible, or my execution needed to serve as an example.

The courtyard had been arranged with ceremonial precision.

At the center stood an ornate pedestal where my Bible had been placed, looking small and vulnerable, surrounded by all the pomp and authority of the Saudi royal court.

Next to it, a golden ceremonial torch waited, its flame dancing in the morning breeze.

My family was seated in positions of honor near the front.

My mother’s face was hidden behind a veil, but I could see her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

My father sat rigid in his throne-like chair, his expression carved from stone.

My brothers and sisters avoided looking directly at me, though I could see the pain etched in their postures.

The chief imam stood next to the pedestal, ready to oversee the ceremony.

When he saw me approaching, he nodded gravely and began to speak to the assembled crowd.

We are gathered here today to witness the return of Princess Janat to the true faith of Islam, he announced, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard.

She has been temporarily led astray by foreign influences.

But Allah in his mercy offers redemption to those who repent sincerely.

I was escorted to stand directly in front of the pedestal where my Bible waited.

The torch was placed in my hands, its weight feeling impossibly heavy, despite being made of lightweight gold.

The flame danced just inches from my fingers, hot enough that I could feel its warmth against my skin.

The chief imam turned to me, his voice now addressing me directly.

Princess Janat, do you renounce the false teachings you have been reading? Do you reject the Christian claims about Jesus Christ as the son of God? Do you return willingly to the pure faith of Islam that your ancestors have followed for generations? The courtyard fell completely silent.

Even the wind seemed to still as hundreds of people waited for my response.

I looked out at the faces surrounding me.

Some hopeful, some curious, some already resigned to witnessing an execution.

My father leaned forward slightly in his chair and I caught a glimpse of desperate hope in his eyes.

This was my moment.

All I had to do was say yes.

I could burn the Bible, recite the shahada, and return to my life as a Muslim princess.

My family would welcome me back with tears of relief.

The crowd would celebrate my return to Islam.

I would live to see another sunset, another family gathering, another peaceful night in my comfortable chambers.

But as I stared down at the Bible on the pedestal, something extraordinary happened.

The words on its cover seemed to glow with an inner light, and I could hear Jesus speaking to my heart as clearly as if he were standing beside me.

I am the way, the truth, and the life,” his voice whispered in my soul.

“Do not fear those who kill the body, but cannot kill the soul.

” I lifted my head and looked directly at my father.

“I cannot burn God’s word,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent courtyard.

“And I cannot deny that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.

” The reaction was immediate and explosive.

Gasps and cries of shock erupted from the crowd.

My mother’s muffled whale of despair cut through the other sounds like a knife.

Several of the religious leaders began shouting about blasphemy and apostasy.

My father rose slowly from his chair, his face a mask of grief and fury.

Janat, he said, his voice heavy with finality.

You have chosen your path.

Guards, arrest the condemned.

Palace guards immediately surrounded me.

But something strange happened as they reached for my arms.

The torch in my hands suddenly blazed brighter, so bright that several guards stepped back, shielding their eyes.

I felt a presence surrounding me, protective and powerful, and for a moment it seemed like the very air around me was charged with divine energy.

But the moment passed and the guards completed their arrest.

As they led me away from the pedestal, I turned back one more time to look at my family.

My youngest sister was openly weeping.

My brothers sat in stunned silence.

My mother had collapsed against my father’s arm.

But my father’s eyes met mine across the courtyard, and in them I saw something unexpected.

Along with the anger and disappointment, there was a flicker of what looked almost like admiration.

His daughter had chosen death rather than compromise her beliefs, and some part of him, some deep royal understanding of honor and conviction, recognized the courage in that choice.

The guards escorted me to the palace dungeons, a place I had never seen before in my life of privilege.

The stone corridors were damp and cold, lit by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls.

They placed me in a small cell with a narrow window that let in a single shaft of sunlight.

As the heavy door clanged shut behind me, I realized that I had crossed a point of no return.

I was no longer Princess Janat of Saudi Arabia.

I was now a condemned apostate awaiting execution for the crime of refusing to deny Jesus Christ.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, would you have had the courage to make the same choice? Would you have been willing to face death rather than deny your faith? As I knelt on the cold stone floor of that prison cell, I felt Jesus’s presence with me more powerfully than ever before.

I had lost everything the world considers valuable.

But I had gained something infinitely more precious, the unshakable knowledge that I belonged to him, no matter what happened to my earthly body.

The chains on my wrists were real, but my soul had never been more free.

The execution was scheduled for dawn on September 8th, 2019.

I spent that final night in my cell in a state of supernatural peace that I still cannot fully explain.

Every rational part of my mind knew I should be terrified, should be desperately trying to find some escape or bargaining for my life.

Instead, I found myself singing hymns I had never learned, worshiping Jesus with a joy that seemed to emanate from my very soul.

At sunrise, the heavy door of my cell opened with a grinding sound that echoed through the stone corridors.

The chief executioner stood in the doorway, flanked by palace guards, his face hidden beneath a black hood.

This was the man who would end my life in just minutes.

Yet I felt no hatred toward him.

He was simply fulfilling his duty according to the laws of our kingdom.

It is time, princess, he said solemnly.

They led me from the dungeon back up to the main level of the palace, but this time we headed toward the execution courtyard, a smaller, more private space used for carrying out death sentences.

My legs felt strangely steady as we walked, and I realized that Jesus was literally carrying me through each step.

The execution courtyard was filled with the same officials who had witnessed my refusal to burn the Bible the day before.

But the atmosphere was completely different now.

Instead of hope for my recantation, there was a somber recognition that they were about to witness the death of a member of the royal family.

My father sat in his chair with his head in his hands, unable to look at me directly.

My mother was not present.

I learned later that she had collapsed the previous evening and was being treated by the palace physicians.

The thought of her suffering brought me the only real sadness I felt in those final moments.

If I could have spared her this pain without denying Jesus, I would have done so in an instant.

The executioner’s block had been placed in the center of the courtyard.

A simple wooden structure that had ended the lives of countless condemned prisoners over the centuries.

The chief executioner’s sword lay beside it, its blade gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

As I approached the block, the chief imam stepped forward to offer me one final opportunity to recant.

Princess Janat,” he said loudly enough for all to hear.

Even now, Allah’s mercy is available to you.

Renounce these Christian lies.

Return to Islam and your life will be spared.

I looked around the courtyard one more time, taking in the faces of people I had known my entire life.

Some looked away in shame, others watched with morbid fascination.

A few, particularly some of the younger guards, seemed moved by something they saw in my demeanor.

“I cannot deny Jesus Christ,” I said clearly.

“He is my Lord and my Savior, and I would rather die than betray him.

” The chief imam nodded sadly and stepped back.

The chief executioner approached me, and I was instructed to kneel before the block.

As I lowered myself to my knees, I felt an overwhelming sense of Jesus’s presence surrounding me.

It was as if he were kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder, whispering words of comfort that my heart understood, even if my ears couldn’t quite hear them.

The executioner raised his sword above his head.

In that moment, time seemed to slow to an almost complete stop.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

could feel the morning breeze on my face, could sense the collective held breath of everyone watching.

That’s when it happened.

The ground beneath the courtyard began to shake.

At first, it was just a slight tremor that made a few people look around nervously, but within seconds, it had grown into a violent earthquake that sent everyone scrambling for safety.

The executioner stumbled backward, his sword falling harmlessly to the ground.

But the earthquake was just the beginning of what happened next.

A brilliant light appeared around me, so bright that it was visible even in the daylight.

It wasn’t like sunlight or any artificial illumination I had ever seen.

It seemed to emanate from heaven itself, pure and clean, and impossibly radiant.

Several guards fell to their knees, crying out in terror and awe.

The light grew brighter and brighter until it was almost blinding.

And then I heard a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

It wasn’t speaking Arabic or any human language, but somehow everyone present understood its meaning perfectly.

This is my beloved daughter in whom I am well pleased.

The voice of God himself echoed across the courtyard with such authority and power that strong men collapsed to the ground in fear.

The chief executioner threw himself face down on the stone pavement.

Even my father fell from his chair, overwhelmed by the divine presence that had invaded our earthly realm.

As the voice faded, I felt the chains around my wrists simply fall away.

not broken, not unlocked, but dissolved as if they had never existed.

I looked down at my hands in amazement, completely free from any earthly restraint, the earthquake continued for several more minutes, and during that time, the most extraordinary thing happened.

One by one, people throughout the courtyard began to cry out in recognition of what they were witnessing.

Several guards shouted, “There is no God but God, and Jesus is his son.

” Palace officials who had been devout Muslims their entire lives fell on their faces, begging Jesus for mercy and salvation.

Even some of the religious leaders seemed shaken to their very cores.

I saw the chief Imam staring at me with wide eyes, his certainty about Islamic doctrine, visibly crumbling as he witnessed the God of the Bible intervening in real time.

When the earthquake finally stopped and the brilliant light faded, the courtyard was in chaos.

Some people were still prostrate on the ground, afraid to move.

Others were arguing loudly about what they had just witnessed.

A few were quietly weeping, overwhelmed by their encounter with the divine.

My father slowly rose from where he had fallen and approached me cautiously.

His face was pale and his hands were trembling.

JJ, he whispered, “What have we witnessed here? What god have you been serving?” Before I could answer, one of the palace guards who had been present spoke up boldly.

Your Majesty, I saw the God of the Christians save her life.

I saw him break her chains with his own power.

I believe this Jesus is real, and I want to follow him, too.

” The guard’s declaration seemed to break a dam of suppressed emotion and conviction.

Other guards began to nod in agreement.

Palace servants stepped forward to declare their newfound faith in Jesus.

Even a few government officials quietly acknowledged that they had witnessed a miracle that could only come from the true God.

My father looked around at the chaos unfolding in his courtyard.

His authority challenged not by human rebellion but by divine intervention.

After several long minutes of silence, he made a decision that shocked everyone present.

“I cannot execute someone whom God himself has protected,” he said slowly.

Princess Janat, you are hereby exiled from Saudi Arabia.

You have 48 hours to leave the kingdom and never return.

It wasn’t freedom in the sense I had known it my entire life, but it was life itself, granted not through human mercy, but through divine miracle.

As I was escorted back to the palace to prepare for my departure, I couldn’t help but marvel at how Jesus had turned my death sentence into the beginning of a completely new life.

So, I’m asking you, as someone who nearly died for faith, what are you willing to sacrifice for Jesus? Because I can tell you from personal experience that he is worth losing everything for.

And when you give him everything, he gives you back far more than you could ever imagine.

If Jesus can save a Muslim princess from execution, he can save anyone.