My name is Zara.

I’m 28 years old.

And on September 23rd, 2018, my life changed forever.

That was the day my father, the king of Saudi Arabia, announced I would become the shared wife of my five brothers.

Today, I’m a free woman in Christ.

But let me tell you how I got here.

I was born into unimaginable wealth and privilege as the only daughter of King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia.

Our palace stretched across acres of pristine marble floors, crystal chandeliers that cost more than most people’s homes, and gardens that required 200 servants to maintain.

My bedroom alone was larger than most apartments, filled with designer clothes from Paris, jewelry worth millions, and every luxury a young woman could desire.

Yet, for all this opulence, I lived in what I now understand was a beautiful prison.

From the moment I could walk, my life was controlled down to the smallest detail.

I had private tutors for Arabic, English, French, mathematics, and Islamic studies.

Every book I read was approved, every lesson monitored, every moment of my day scheduled by others.

I never stepped foot outside the palace walls without a male guardian, and even then, only for carefully orchestrated visits to other royal families or religious sites.

The outside world existed only in the filtered stories my tutors told me, or the heavily censored news my father allowed.

Can you imagine being told your entire life that your only value comes from submission? This was my reality from childhood.

I was taught that questioning any decision made by the men in my family was not just disrespectful but a sin against Allah himself.

My worth was measured entirely by my obedience, my purity, and my ability to bring honor to our family name through my devotion to Islam and eventual marriage to someone my father chose.

My relationship with Islam consumed every aspect of my existence.

I memorized the entire Quran by age 12, a feat that brought immense pride to my father and brothers.

I prayed five times daily without fail, even when I was sick or exhausted.

The call to prayer was the rhythm of my life, more reliable than any clock.

I wore my hijab with genuine pride from age 9 and my full nikab and abaya from age 14.

These weren’t just religious obligations to me.

They were expressions of my deep love for Allah and my commitment to living as a righteous Muslim woman.

I spent hours each day studying Islamic texts, learning the intricate details of Sharia law, memorizing hadiths, and discussing theology with our family, Imm.

My faith wasn’t cultural or inherited.

It was personal and passionate.

I truly believed with every fiber of my being that Islam was the only true path to God, and I felt genuinely sorry for all the Christians, Jews, and other non-believers who would face eternal punishment for their ignorance.

When I prayed, I felt connected to something greater than myself.

And I was convinced that Allah heard and blessed my devotion.

The structure of our family was absolute monarchy in miniature.

My father, King Abdullah, ruled not just our nation, but our household with unquestioned authority.

His word was law, and no one, not even my adult brothers, dared challenge his decisions.

He was a traditional man who believed deeply that women needed male protection and guidance in all things.

To him, my education and comfort were investments in my future value as a wife to whatever man he deemed worthy of alliance with our family.

My five brothers, Hassan, Omar, Khaled, Fisal, and Rasheed, ranged in age from 25 to 35.

They were my father’s pride, each being groomed for various roles in government and business.

Hassan, the eldest, was serious and calculating, already serving as an adviser to our father.

Omar was charming but had a cruel streak that he hid well from adults.

Khaled was religious like me but his devotion had a harsh judgmental edge.

Fisel was the most unpredictable known for his temper and excessive drinking despite our religious prohibitions.

Rashid, the youngest of my brothers, was perhaps the closest thing I had to a friend in that family, though even he saw me as property to be protected rather than a person with my own thoughts and feelings.

The turning point in my relationship with my brothers began when my mother died in a car accident when I was 10 years old.

She had been my advocate and protector in ways I didn’t fully understand until she was gone.

After her death, I became more isolated, more dependent on my brother’s approval, and more vulnerable to the toxic dynamics that would eventually destroy my life.

Without her gentle influence, the men in my family became harder, more controlling, and more convinced that I needed constant supervision to prevent me from bringing shame to our name.

I was raised to believe that a woman’s highest honor was serving her family, particularly the men in her family.

Every lesson, every conversation, every interaction reinforced this message.

I was told that my future husband would be chosen based on what was best for our family’s political and economic interests, and that my personal feelings about this man were irrelevant and even selfish to consider.

Love, I was taught, would grow from obedience and shared faith.

My dreams, preferences, and desires were never part of any conversation about my future.

Despite all this control, I genuinely believed I was blessed.

I thought Allah had chosen me for a life of privilege, and that my submission to my family was a form of worship that pleased him.

I felt sorry for Western women who had to work, make their own decisions, and live without the protection of male guardians.

Their freedom looked like abandonment to me, their independence like a burden I was grateful to avoid.

Looking back now, I can see how thoroughly I had been conditioned to accept my own oppression as divine blessing.

But at the time, this was simply reality as I understood it.

On September 23rd, 2018, I was summoned to my father’s throne room at exactly 3:00 in the afternoon.

This wasn’t unusual, as he often called me to discuss my religious studies or to introduce me to visiting dignitaries wives.

I dressed carefully in my finest black abaya and made sure my hijab was perfectly arranged before walking the long marble corridors to his chambers.

The ornate doors carved with verses from the Quran opened to reveal my father seated on his golden throne with all five of my brothers standing in a formal line to his right.

The atmosphere felt different, heavier somehow, and I noticed none of them would meet my eyes as I approached.

My father’s voice was calm and authoritative as he began to speak, the same tone he used when making state announcements.

Zara, my daughter, you have reached an age where your future must be secured for the honor and strength of our family.

I nodded respectfully, assuming he was about to announce my engagement to some foreign prince or wealthy businessman.

What came next shattered my entire world to preserve our bloodlines purity and strengthen the bonds between your brothers.

You will become wife to Hassan, Omar, Khaled, Fisel, and Rashid.

This arrangement will ensure our family’s unity for generations to come.

The words hit me like physical blows.

I felt the blood drain from my face as I tried to process what I had just heard.

My father continued speaking, quoting obscure interpretations of Islamic texts that supposedly justified this decision, but his voice sounded distant and muffled as shock overwhelmed my senses.

I wanted to scream, to run, to fall to my knees and beg him to reconsider.

But 20 years of conditioning kept me silent and still.

Good Muslim daughters don’t question their fathers.

Good Muslim daughters submit without complaint.

Have you ever felt completely trapped with nowhere to run? That moment in the throne room was when I first understood what true powerlessness felt like.

My brothers finally looked at me, and I saw no sympathy in their faces, only acceptance of what they clearly already knew was coming.

This hadn’t been a sudden decision.

It had been planned and discussed without me about me, as if I were a piece of property being redistributed for maximum family benefit.

The religious justification my father provided centered around keeping our royal bloodline pure and preventing any outsider from gaining influence over our family’s wealth and power.

He spoke of historical precedents of other royal families who had used similar arrangements of how this would make our bond as siblings unbreakable since we would all be united not just by blood but by marriage.

To him this was strategic brilliance wrapped in religious devotion.

To me it was a death sentence.

Within one week, preparations began for my first wedding ceremony to Hassan, my eldest brother.

The event was kept small and private, with only immediate family and our most trusted religious advisers present.

I moved through those seven days like a sleepwalker, going through the motions of bridal preparations, while my soul screamed in horror.

The palace staff, who helped me prepare, seemed uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact and speaking in whispers, but none dared question the king’s decision.

The wedding ceremony itself was a nightmare dressed as a celebration.

I felt like I was attending my own funeral.

As I sat through the religious rituals that would bind me to my brother as his wife, the imam who performed the ceremony spoke about the sanctity of marriage, about submission and obedience, about the blessings that come from following Allah’s will as interpreted by our family patriarch.

Every word felt like poison in my ears, but I sat silent and still, playing the role of the compliant bride, while my heart shattered into pieces.

The wedding night with Hassan was horror beyond description.

This man who had taught me to ride horses, who had protected me from bullies, who had once been my hero, now became my abuser in the most intimate way possible.

He showed no tenderness, no acknowledgement of the wrongness of what was happening.

To him, I had simply changed categories from sister to wife, and he exercised his new rights over my body with the same matter-of-act authority he used in everything else.

Within a month, the rotation system was fully established.

Monday nights I belonged to Hassan, Tuesdays to Omar, Wednesdays to Khaled, Thursdays to Faizal, and Fridays to Rashid.

Weekends were reserved for family gatherings where I was expected to sit quietly while my husband brothers discussed business and politics.

I was passed between them like a shared possession, each night bringing fresh trauma and humiliation.

Each brother had his own particular form of cruelty.

Hassan was cold and demanding, treating our encounters like business transactions.

Omar enjoyed psychological torment, constantly reminding me of my powerlessness and describing in detail what would happen if I ever tried to resist.

Khaled insisted on lengthy prayers before and after, convinced he was performing religious duty.

Fisel was violent when drunk, which was often leaving bruises I had to hide under long sleeves and carefully applied makeup.

Rashid, who I had hoped might show mercy, was perhaps the worst because he pretended to be gentle while doing things that left me feeling hollow and broken.

The physical abuse was accompanied by complete isolation from any outside contact.

My phone was monitored, my internet access restricted, and guards were assigned to watch me constantly.

When I showed any sign of resistance or sadness, I was punished with beatings, starvation, or solitary confinement.

I learned quickly to hide my emotions, to smile when expected, to play the role of the grateful wife who was honored by this arrangement.

Within 2 months, I had lost 30 lb.

Food became repulsive to me, sleep impossible without nightmares, and I stopped caring for my appearance entirely.

I became a walking corpse, alive, but not living, going through the motions of existence, while my spirit died a little more each day.

The vibrant, faithful young woman I had been, vanished, replaced by a hollow shell who existed only to serve my brother’s needs and my father’s political vision.

The worst part wasn’t the physical abuse or even the emotional trauma.

The worst part was the crisis of faith that began to consume me.

If this was truly Allah’s will for my life, if this was what pleased the God I had served so devotedly, then maybe Allah wasn’t who I thought he was.

Maybe the God I had loved and worshiped my entire life was actually a cruel tyrant who cared nothing for my suffering.

This thought terrified me more than anything my brothers could do to me because it threatened to destroy the very foundation of my identity and purpose.

December 15th, 2018 will forever be burned into my memory as the night I reached the absolute bottom of human despair.

It was Fisel’s night, and he had been drinking heavily during a business dinner with foreign investors.

When he came to my room, the smell of alcohol mixed with his cologne made me nauseious before he even touched me.

That night, his cruelty reached new depths.

He seemed to take pleasure in my pain, mocking my tears and telling me in graphic detail how worthless I was, how I existed only for his pleasure and the pleasure of my other brothers.

After he finally left my room, I lay bleeding and broken on my bed, staring at the ornate ceiling that had once represented luxury, and now felt like the lid of my coffin.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I seriously considered ending my own life.

I thought about the bottles of cleaning supplies under my bathroom sink, about the balcony outside my window, about anything that could make the pain stop permanently.

Death seemed like the only escape from a life that had become nothing but endless suffering and humiliation.

In that moment of complete desperation, something stirred in my memory.

Years earlier, when I was maybe 14, we had a Christian servant named Maria who worked in our household.

She was a Filipino woman who cleaned the women’s quarters and had always been kind to me.

I remembered one day when I had cut my hand badly on broken glass, and Maria had tended to my wound while tears streamed down her face.

She whispered to me then, thinking no one else could hear.

Jesus loves you so much, little princess.

He died for broken hearts like yours.

At the time I had been shocked by her blasphemous words, and had quickly forgotten about them, but now, in my darkest hour, those words came rushing back with startling clarity.

I remembered how Maria had been dismissed suddenly one day without explanation, and how the other servants had whispered that she had been caught praying to Jesus instead of Allah.

I had thought at the time that she deserved her fate for her religious rebellion.

But now I wondered if there might have been something to her faith that I had missed.

If Jesus really loved broken hearts, if he really cared about suffering, maybe he would hear a desperate prayer from someone who had nowhere else to turn.

The idea of praying to Jesus terrified me almost as much as my current situation.

Everything I had been taught told me this was shook, the worst sin in Islam, associating partners with Allah.

But as I lay there contemplating suicide, I realized I was already beyond caring about religious rules that seem to have failed me so completely.

With shaking hands and a voice barely above a whisper, I spoke my first prayer to Jesus Christ.

Jesus, I don’t know if you’re real, but I’m dying inside.

If you can hear me, if you really love women like Maria said, please help me.

I can’t take this anymore.

The moment those words left my lips, something incredible happened.

A piece that I cannot adequately describe washed over me like warm water.

For the first time in months, the crushing weight of despair lifted slightly from my chest.

I felt a presence in that room with me, not threatening or demanding like the presence I had always associated with Allah, but gentle and comforting like a loving father holding a wounded child.

I had never experienced anything like it in all my years of Islamic prayer and devotion.

Have you ever experienced God’s presence when you needed it most? That night, something supernatural occurred that I cannot explain in purely rational terms.

I fell into the first peaceful sleep I had known since my forced marriages began, and I woke up the next morning with a strength I hadn’t possessed the night before.

The circumstances hadn’t changed, but something fundamental had shifted inside me.

From that night forward, I began a dangerous double life.

During the day, I continued to pray my Islamic prayers and recite Quran verses as expected.

But at night, alone in my room, I would whisper secret prayers to Jesus.

I started with simple requests for help and comfort, but gradually began pouring out my heart to him about everything I was experiencing.

Unlike my prayers to Allah, which had always felt formal and one-sided, these conversations with Jesus felt real and personal, like talking to someone who actually cared about my individual pain.

Using a phone that one of my more sympathetic guards had secretly given me, I began researching Christianity online during the few moments when I wasn’t being watched.

I had to be extremely careful, deleting my search history immediately after each session and only looking at websites when I was certain no one would discover me.

What I learned about Jesus amazed me.

Here was a God who had come to earth as a man who had suffered injustice and pain, who had specifically defended women who were being mistreated by religious leaders.

The stories of Jesus’s interactions with women struck me with particular force.

I read about the woman caught in adultery whom Jesus protected from stoning.

About Mary Magdalene whom he treated with dignity despite her past about the Samaritan woman at the well to whom he revealed his true identity despite social taboos.

This was a God who saw women as valuable human beings, not property to be controlled and used by men.

This was a God who understood suffering and offered hope to the hopeless.

As weeks passed, my secret prayers to Jesus became the anchor of my sanity.

During the most brutal nights with my brothers, I would silently call out to Jesus in my mind, asking for strength to endure.

When the physical pain became overwhelming, I would remember that Jesus had also suffered physical torture and that he understood exactly what I was going through.

When the emotional trauma threatened to destroy my mind completely, I would hold on to the promise I had read in one of the Christian websites that Jesus came to heal the brokenhearted and set the captives free.

My relationship with Jesus began to give me something I had never experienced before.

Hope.

For the first time since the nightmare began, I started to believe that escape might actually be possible.

Not through my own efforts or intelligence, but through the power of a God who specialized in impossible rescues.

I began to pray not just for comfort but for deliverance, asking Jesus to make a way out of my situation that seemed to have no earthly solution.

Something was happening in my heart that I couldn’t fully explain to myself.

The Muslim faith I had practiced so devotedly for 23 years had taught me to submit to suffering as Allah’s will.

But Jesus was teaching me that God actually wanted to rescue me from suffering.

Islam had taught me that questioning authority was sinful.

But Christianity seemed to suggest that God himself might be opposed to the injustice I was experiencing.

These revolutionary ideas both thrilled and terrified me as I realized how completely they challenged everything I had believed about God, faith, and my place in the world.

God was preparing my heart for something greater than I could imagine.

Though I wouldn’t understand the full scope of his plan until much later.

On February 8th, 2019, my life changed forever in ways I never could have imagined.

I had fallen into an exhausted sleep after another horrific night.

My body and spirit pushed beyond their breaking point.

What happened next was so vivid, so real that even now I struggled to find adequate words to describe it.

I found myself standing in the most beautiful garden I had ever seen, with flowers more vibrant than any earthly colors and a gentle breeze that seemed to carry peace itself.

Then I saw him.

Jesus stood before me, and his presence was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

He wasn’t the pale, weak figure I had seen in forbidden Christian artwork online.

This Jesus radiated power and authority.

Yet his eyes held such infinite love and compassion that I immediately fell to my knees, not out of fear, but out of overwhelming recognition that I was in the presence of perfect love.

His face showed thee marks of suffering, scars that somehow made him more beautiful rather than less.

And I knew without being told that he understood every moment of pain I had endured.

When Jesus spoke, his voice penetrated not just my ears, but my very soul.

Daughter, he said, and that single word contained more love than I had received from my earthly father in my entire life.

I have heard every cry, collected every tear.

Not one moment of your suffering has been hidden from me.

” As he spoke, I felt years of accumulated anguish begin to lift from my shoulders like heavy chains falling away.

The validation I had desperately needed, the acknowledgement that what was happening to me was wrong, came from the lips of God himself.

Jesus extended his hands toward me and I could see the nail scars in his palms.

I know what it means to suffer unjustly, he continued.

I know what it means to be betrayed by those who should have protected you.

I know what it means to cry out to God and feel abandoned.

In that moment, I understood that Jesus wasn’t just sympathizing with my pain from a distance.

He had experienced the worst that human cruelty could inflict.

And he had done it voluntarily out of love for people like me.

The vision shifted and suddenly I could see myself, but not as I was in that moment.

I saw myself standing in a place I didn’t recognize, wearing clothes I had never owned, speaking to crowds of people with confidence and joy radiating from my face.

I was free, not just physically free from my capttors, but spiritually free from the fear and shame that had defined my existence for so long.

Jesus showed me that this wasn’t just a wishful dream, but a promise of what he was going to accomplish in my life.

“You will be free, my daughter,” Jesus declared with absolute authority.

And not only will you be free, but you will help others find the freedom I have purchased for them.

The vision became even more specific as I saw myself in what I now know was London.

standing before imposing buildings and speaking with officials who listen to my story with compassion rather than condemnation.

I saw myself being baptized in clear water, emerging with my face shining with joy.

I saw myself embracing other women who looked like they had experienced similar trauma.

And I could see hope being born in their eyes as I shared my story.

When God opens a door, no man can shut it.

Is he opening a door for you today? These words seem to echo in the vision as Jesus showed me the specific details of how my escape would unfold.

I saw my father suddenly deciding that I needed medical treatment in London.

A decision that made no logical sense given his usual refusal to let me travel anywhere.

I saw the face of a female guard I didn’t recognize.

Someone who would be assigned to accompany me and who would play a crucial role in my escape.

I saw the exact building where I would find refuge and the people who would help me claim asylum.

The level of detail in this vision was extraordinary.

Jesus showed me the medical appointment that would provide cover for the trip, the specific day it would occur, and even the traffic jam that would create the perfect window of opportunity for me to slip away from my guards.

He showed me the address of the British embassy, the words I should say when I arrived, and the documents I would need to prove my identity as a Saudi princess seeking protection.

Most importantly, Jesus gave me specific instructions about what to do in preparation for this escape.

I was to hide a small amount of my most valuable jewelry, items that could be easily concealed, but would provide emergency funds if needed.

I was to memorize every detail of the plan he had shown me, but to tell absolutely no one about what I had seen.

I was to continue praying to him daily, building the faith and strength I would need to take the terrifying step of fleeing everything I had ever known.

The timing must be perfect, Jesus explained.

Trust completely in my plan, even when circumstances seem impossible.

When the moment comes, you will know, and you must act with complete faith, not hesitation.

He impressed upon me that there would be no second chance, no room for doubt or delay when the opportunity presented itself.

The vision concluded with Jesus embracing me, and I felt a love so pure and complete that it made every earthly relationship pale in comparison.

You are my beloved daughter, he whispered.

I have great plans for your life, plans for hope and a future.

The darkness you are in now is not your destiny.

Light is coming and it will shine through you to reach others who are trapped in similar darkness.

When I awakened from this vision, everything had changed.

I was still in the same palace, still trapped in the same horrific situation, but I now carried within me an unshakable certainty that God had a plan for my deliverance.

The despair that had nearly driven me to suicide was replaced with supernatural hope and anticipation.

I knew with absolute conviction that my escape was not just possible but inevitable because the God of the universe had personally promised it to me.

From that moment forward, I began preparing for my freedom with the same dedication I had once shown in my Islamic devotions.

Every detail Jesus had shown me became a focal point for prayer and preparation.

and I waited with growing excitement for the miraculous circumstances to align exactly as he had promised they would.

April 12th, 2019 dawned like any other day.

But I knew from the moment I opened my eyes that this was the day Jesus had promised would change everything.

3 days earlier, my father had made the shocking announcement that I needed immediate medical treatment in London for what he described as a serious but private women’s health issue.

The decision came completely out of nowhere, and I watched my brother’s faces carefully for any sign that they suspected something.

But they seemed as surprised as everyone else by this sudden concern for my well-being.

The medical appointment had been arranged with a prestigious London clinic that specialized in treating royal families from the Middle East.

Everything fell into place exactly as Jesus had shown me in the vision, down to the smallest details.

The female god assigned to accompany me was indeed someone I had never seen before, a woman named Amira, who seemed nervous and kept avoiding eye contact with my brothers.

Later, I would learn that she had her own reasons for wanting to help me escape.

Having lost her own sister to a similar forced marriage arrangement in another royal family.

As our private jet lifted off from Riyad, I pressed my face to the window and watched the city shrink below me.

Terror and excitement wared in my chest as I realized I was looking at my homeland for what I knew would be the last time.

The prayer I whispered under my breath was simple.

Jesus, I am putting my life completely in your hands.

Whatever happens next, I trust you.

The peace that filled me in response to that prayer was supernatural, a calmness that made no sense given the enormous risk I was about to take.

The flight to London took seven hours, and I spent most of that time in silent prayer and mental rehearsal of everything Jesus had shown me.

I had memorized the address of the British embassy, practiced the exact words I would say when I arrived, and hidden my most valuable pieces of jewelry in the lining of my medical bag.

The plan required split-second timing and absolute faith because once I made my move, there would be no turning back and no second chances.

When we landed at Heithro airport, everything continued to align precisely as the vision had predicted.

Amir, who was supposed to stay close to me at all times, suddenly complained of severe stomach pains and was replaced by a substitute guard who clearly had not been briefed on the importance of constant surveillance.

This guard, whose name was Fatima, seemed more interested in shopping at the airport duty-free stores than in monitoring my movements.

The medical appointment was scheduled for 2 p.

m.

at a clinic in central London.

As our car made its way through the city traffic, I found myself amazed by the sights outside the windows.

London was so different from Riyad, so alive and diverse, with women walking freely on the streets, wearing whatever they chose, talking and laughing with men who weren’t their relatives.

For the first time, I was seeing the world that Jesus had promised would one day be mine.

The traffic jam that created my window of opportunity happened exactly as the vision had shown.

Our car became stuck in a massive bottleneck near Parliament, moving only a few feet every several minutes.

Fatima was growing agitated about being late for the appointment and was frantically making phone calls to the clinic and my father’s security team.

In her distraction, she failed to notice when I quietly opened the car door during one of our complete stops and slipped out into the crowded street.

My heart pounded as I walked quickly but calmly through the London streets, following the route I had memorized from the vision.

Every step took me further from my old life and closer to the freedom Jesus had promised.

Several times I was certain that security personnel had spotted me and were following, but each time it turned out to be my imagination amplified by adrenaline and fear.

The British Embassy building stood before me exactly as I had seen it in the vision, an imposing structure that represented safety and hope.

My hands were shaking as I approached the security guards at the entrance.

But my voice was steady as I spoke the words Jesus had given me.

My name is Princess Zara Al-Saud of Saudi Arabia.

I am seeking asylum from religious persecution and forced marriage.

My life is in immediate danger if I am returned to my family.

The response was immediate and professional.

Within minutes, I was escorted inside to meet with asylum officials who had clearly dealt with similar cases before.

They listened to my story with compassion and gravity, taking detailed notes and asking questions that demonstrated their understanding of the serious nature of my situation.

When I showed them proof of my identity and described the specific details of my forced marriages to my brothers, I could see shock and anger flash across their faces.

The legal battle for asylum began immediately.

My case was complicated by the diplomatic implications of a Saudi princess claiming persecution, and there were months of uncertainty while officials debated my fate.

During this time, I lived in a secure facility under protection, never knowing if political pressure from my father might force the British government to send me back to certain death.

The stress was enormous, but I held on to Jesus’s promise that I would not just be free, but would help others find freedom as well.

What prison is keeping you from the life God designed for you? During those months of legal uncertainty, I often thought about this question as it related not just to my physical captivity, but to the mental and spiritual chains that had bound me for so long.

Freedom, I was learning, involved much more than just escaping from Saudi Arabia.

It meant breaking free from years of conditioning that had taught me I was worthless, that I deserved abuse, that I had no right to make my own decisions or have my own relationship with God.

The asylum officials connected me with a network of Christian lawyers who worked pro bono on cases involving religious persecution.

These people became my advocates and my introduction to what authentic Christian community looked like.

For the first time in my life, I met people who served others not for personal gain but out of genuine love for Jesus Christ and commitment to his teachings about justice and mercy.

My baptism took place on a crisp Sunday morning in October 2019 at a small London church that had become my sanctuary during the asylum process.

As I stood in that baptismal pool wearing a simple white dress that one of the church ladies had bought for me, I felt the weight of my entire past life pressing down on my shoulders.

The pastor, a gentle man named David, who had spent countless hours helping me understand the gospel, asked if I was ready to die to my old life and be raised as a new creation in Christ.

When I said yes, my voice echoed through the silent sanctuary with a conviction that surprised even me.

Going under that water, my old life died completely.

In that moment of complete submersion, I felt every chain of my past breaking away.

The shame, the fear, the conditioned beliefs about my worthlessness as a woman, the twisted religious teachings that had justified my abuse, all of it was washed away in the symbolic death and resurrection that baptism represents.

When I emerged from the water, gasping and laughing and crying all at once, I knew that Princess Zara also was truly dead, and that a new woman had been born, a daughter of the King of Kings, whose identity was no longer defined by her earthly family’s cruelty, but by God’s perfect love.

The healing process that followed was neither quick nor easy.

Trauma has a way of embedding itself deep in your mind and body, and there were nights when I would wake up screaming, convinced that my brothers were in my room.

I suffered from severe PTSD, panic attacks, and a deep fear of men that made even simple interactions with male doctors or store clerks nearly impossible.

But Jesus was healing not just my circumstances, but my very soul one day at a time through therapy, prayer, and the patient love of my new Christian family.

Learning to read the Bible openly without fear of being caught and punished was one of my greatest joys during this healing time.

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

This God didn’t demand my blind submission to human cruelty.

He defended the oppressed, lifted up the downtrodden, and promised justice for those who had been wronged.

The Psalms became my daily comfort as I read David’s honest cries for help and protection, realizing that God actually wanted to hear about my pain rather than demanding that I suffer in silence.

The most difficult part of my spiritual growth was learning to forgive my family.

Jesus was asking me to do something that felt impossible and even dangerous.

How could I forgive men who had destroyed my childhood, stolen my innocence, and caused trauma that would affect me for the rest of my life? Yet, as I studied Jesus’s teachings about forgiveness and his example of forgiving even those who crucified him, I began to understand that forgiveness wasn’t about excusing their behavior or pretending it hadn’t happened.

Forgiveness was about releasing the poison of hatred from my own heart so that it couldn’t continue destroying me from the inside.

This process took over a year of intensive prayer and counseling.

I had to grieve not just the abuse I had suffered, but also the family relationships I had lost forever.

There were days when the sadness felt overwhelming.

When I mourned the father who should have protected me instead of sacrificing me, the brothers who should have been my defenders instead of my destroyers.

But gradually through God’s supernatural grace, I was able to genuinely pray for their salvation and release my need for earthly revenge to God’s perfect justice.

During my second year in London, God began revealing his larger purpose for my suffering.

Through connections in the asylum community, I met other Muslim women who had escaped similar situations of abuse justified by religious extremism.

Their stories were heartbreakingly familiar, and I felt God calling me to share my testimony, not just as personal healing, but as a tool to help others find freedom.

My first speaking engagement was at a small church gathering of maybe 30 people, and I was so nervous that I nearly backed out three times before finally taking the microphone.

That first testimony changed everything.

As I shared my story of escape and transformation, I watched faces in the audience change from shock to tears to determination.

After the service, several people approached me with their own stories of abuse and trauma, thanking me for giving them hope that healing was possible.

One woman named Sarah told me that my story had convinced her to leave an abusive marriage she had thought God wanted her to endure.

Another man named James said that my testimony had helped him understand why his Muslim coworker seemed so afraid and withdrawn, and he asked for advice on how to show Christ’s love without being pushy or culturally insensitive.

From that first speaking engagement grew a ministry that I never could have imagined.

Within six months, I was speaking at churches, conferences, and universities across England.

Sharing my testimony and training Christians on how to help asylum seekers from Islamic backgrounds.

The underground network that developed around this ministry became a lifeline for dozens of women fleeing similar situations of religious abuse and persecution.

God turned my pain into purpose in ways that constantly amazed me.

The specific trauma I had endured, as horrible as it had been, gave me credibility and insight that allowed me to reach women that others couldn’t.

When I spoke to a Pakistani woman named Fatima, who had been sold into marriage at age 14, she trusted me immediately because she could see in my eyes that I truly understood her experience.

When I counseledled Aisha, an Iranian woman facing honor killing for converting to Christianity, my own experience of family rejection allowed me to offer comfort and practical advice that actually helped her navigate the asylum process successfully.

Every woman we helped proved that Jesus is still in the miracle business.

I watched God transform lives that seemed completely hopeless, providing not just physical escape, but spiritual healing and purpose.

Fatima, the Pakistani woman I mentioned, is now a nurse in Manchester and leads a support group for South Asian women escaping abuse.

Aisha started a ministry translating Christian materials into Farsy and has helped dozens of Iranian refugees find both physical safety and spiritual salvation.

The cost of this ministry has been significant and ongoing.

I live under an assumed name for security reasons and can never return to Saudi Arabia or see any surviving family members.

The death threats from extremist groups are constant, requiring me to maintain careful security protocols and limiting my ability to live a completely normal life.

There are times when the isolation and constant vigilance wear on me emotionally, and I struggle with loneliness and the grief of all I have lost, but I have gained so much more than I lost.

The freedom to think my own thoughts, make my own decisions, and have my own relationship with God is worth any earthly sacrifice.

The joy of seeing other women discover this same freedom through my testimony makes every difficulty worthwhile.

The deep personal relationship I have with Jesus Christ, built on genuine love rather than fearful obligation, fills my life with purpose and meaning that I never experienced during my years of Islamic devotion.

Your prison may look different than mine was.

Maybe it’s not physical captivity, but emotional abuse from family members who claim to love you.

Maybe it’s not forced marriage, but addiction that controls your every decision.

Maybe it’s not religious extremism, but depression that tells you every day that your life has no value or purpose.

Maybe it’s fear that keeps you trapped in situations you know are destroying you.

Fear of what others will think.

Fear of being alone.

Fear of making the wrong choice.

But Jesus is calling your name right now.

Just like he called mine in that palace room when I thought death was my only escape.

He sees exactly where you are, understands exactly what you’re going through, and has a plan for your freedom that is more beautiful than anything you can imagine.

You don’t have to stay trapped one more day because the same Jesus who rescued a Saudi princess from forced marriage is ready to rescue you from whatever prison is holding you captive.

If you’re ready to surrender your life to Jesus like I did, I want to lead you in a prayer right now.

Don’t worry about having perfect words or understanding everything about Christianity.

Just speak to Jesus from your heart like you would talk to the most loving father you can imagine because that’s exactly who he is.

Pray with me.

Jesus, I surrender my life to you like Zara did.

I’m tired of being trapped, tired of trying to fix my problems with my own strength.

I believe that you died for my sins and rose again to give me new life.

Please forgive me for all my mistakes and make me your daughter.

Show me the path to freedom and give me courage to follow you no matter what it costs in Jesus’s name.

Amen.

If you prayed that prayer and meant it from your heart, you are now a daughter or son of the King of Kings.

That’s the miracle of Jesus Christ.

and he wants to do the same miracle in your life that he did in mine.

From shared wife of five brothers to beloved daughter of God, that transformation is possible for anyone who will surrender their life to him.

Take a moment right now and ask yourself, what is God calling you to surrender to him today? Whatever it is, he’s ready to take it and give you something infinitely better in