My name is Khalil and on December 25th, 2016, I was set on fire by my own people.

I was 28 years old, a Saudi prince who had everything yet felt completely empty inside.

What I’m about to tell you will challenge everything you believe about God’s reach.

On that Christmas night, when flames consumed my body for celebrating with Christian friends, I cried out to Jesus.

What happened next defied every law of nature and changed my life forever.

I was born into a life that most people could only dream of.

As the third son of a regional Saudi prince, my childhood was filled with golden palaces, private jets, and servants who anticipated my every need.

By the time I turned 12, I had memorized the entire Quran in Arabic, a feat that made my father beam with pride during our family gatherings.

I led prayers at our private royal mosque every Friday, standing before hundreds of our subjects who looked up to me as a spiritual leader.

My father would often place his hand on my shoulder after prayers and tell the other princes that I was his greatest accomplishment, a son who truly embodied the faith of our ancestors.

Yet beneath all this religious devotion and material wealth, I carried a secret that ate away at my soul like acid.

Ask yourself this question.

Can you have everything the world offers and still feel completely empty inside? That was my reality for 28 years.

Every night after leading prayers and fulfilling my royal duties, I would lie in my silk-covered bed, staring at the ceiling of my palace room, feeling like there was a gaping hole in my chest that nothing could fill.

The more I prayed to Allah, the more silent the heavens seemed.

The more I read the Quran, the more questions arose in my mind that I dared not voice to anyone.

During those sleepless nights, I would sneak to the palace computer room and research things that could have cost me my life if discovered.

I read about Christianity, Buddhism, Judaism, anything that might explain why I felt so spiritually hungry despite being surrounded by Islamic teaching every day.

I discovered that Christians believed in a personal relationship with God, not just religious duty.

I learned about Jesus claiming to be the son of God, something that my Islamic upbringing taught me was the greatest blasphemy possible.

But something about these Christian teachings stirred something deep within my spirit that I had never felt during all my years of Islamic devotion.

The more I researched, the more I began to question some of the teachings I had accepted without doubt my entire life.

Why did our religion seem to promote violence against those who disagreed with us? Why were women treated as property rather than equals? Why did Allah seem so distant and angry compared to the loving God that Christians described? These questions tormented me because asking them felt like betraying not just my faith but my family, my culture, and everything I had ever known.

My life began to change when I met the British ambassador and his family at a state function in late 2015.

Most diplomats who visited our palace were formal and political, treating me with the respect my title demanded, but never showing genuine interest in me as a person.

But this ambassador was different.

His wife spoke to me like I was her own son, asking about my dreams and interests rather than just discussing politics and trade agreements.

Their teenage daughter even joked with me about my formal Arabic accent when I spoke English, something that would have been unthinkable with other diplomatic families.

What struck me most was the genuine joy these people carried.

Look inside your own heart right now and remember the last time someone’s presence made you feel completely at peace.

That was how I felt whenever I spent time with this Christian family.

They had something I had never experienced in all my years of Islamic devotion.

They had joy that came from deep within their souls, not from external circumstances.

When they prayed before meals, their faces lit up like they were talking to someone who truly loved them.

When they spoke about Jesus, their eyes filled with the kind of love I had only seen between devoted spouses.

Over several months, our relationship deepened beyond diplomatic necessity.

The ambassador would invite me to private dinners where we discussed philosophy, religion, and life.

His wife would ask about my personal struggles and actually listened to my answers with compassion rather than judgment.

For the first time in my life, I experienced what it felt like to be loved without anyone wanting something from me in return.

When did someone last love you without expecting anything back? I realized that everyone in my royal world from family members to advisers to friends related to me based on my position and power.

But this Christian family loved me simply because they believed I was valuable as a human being.

During one of our conversations, the ambassador gently asked me about my spiritual life.

I found myself admitting things I had never spoken aloud.

My emptiness despite religious devotion.

my questions about Islamic teachings, my longing for a personal relationship with God rather than just religious duty.

Instead of being shocked or trying to convert me immediately, he simply nodded with understanding and said that many people from all backgrounds struggled with similar spiritual hunger.

He told me that Jesus came not just for Christians, but for anyone who was seeking truth and genuine relationship with God.

As 2016 progressed, I found myself looking forward to these dinner conversations more than any royal event or family gathering.

The ambassador’s family showed me what it looked like to live with hope, peace, and genuine love for others, even their enemies.

They prayed for people who opposed them politically rather than seeking revenge.

They served poor refugees in our city without expecting recognition or reward.

They treated their servants like family members rather than property.

Everything about their lives contradicted what I had been taught about Christians being immoral and misguided.

The dangerous friendship I was developing with this Christian family was leading me toward the most important decision of my life, though I had no idea how much it would cost me.

The invitation came on December 20th, 2016 during what would be our final diplomatic dinner before the ambassador’s family returned to London for the holidays.

As we finished our meal, the ambassador’s wife turned to me with the warmest smile I had ever received and said something that would change my life forever.

Khalil, we would be honored if you would join us for Christmas dinner on the 25th.

It’s our most important celebration of the year and you have become like family to us.

My heart began racing immediately.

I knew exactly what Christmas represented to Christians.

The celebration of Jesus Christ’s birth, the very Jesus whom my Islamic faith taught me to reject as a false prophet.

Accepting this invitation would not just be attending a social gathering.

it would be participating in what my family and religious authorities would consider the worst form of blasphemy.

But as I looked into this woman’s eyes, I saw genuine love and acceptance that I had never experienced in 28 years of royal privilege.

The invitation felt like a doorway to another world, a world where I might finally find the peace that had eluded me my entire life.

For five days, I wrestled with the decision.

During my daily prayers, I found myself asking Allah for guidance.

But the silence from heaven felt deafening.

At night, I would pace my palace room, weighing the risks against my desperate spiritual hunger.

If I was discovered, I would face charges of apostasy, which carried the death penalty in our kingdom.

My family would disown me, my inheritance would be stripped away, and I would lose everything I had ever known.

But the emptiness in my soul felt worse than any external punishment I could imagine.

On Christmas morning, I made the decision that would seal my fate.

I told my security detail that I had an important diplomatic meeting with the British ambassador regarding trade negotiations that required absolute privacy.

This lie came easily because such meetings were common in my royal duties, and my guards were accustomed to giving me space for sensitive political discussions.

My heart pounded as I drove through the streets of Riyad toward the diplomatic quarter, knowing that I was crossing a line from which there might be no return.

When I arrived at the ambassador’s residence, the scene that greeted me took my breath away.

Their home was decorated with lights, greenery, and symbols I had only seen in forbidden internet searches.

A beautiful tree stood in their living room, covered with ornaments, and topped with a shining star.

But what moved me most was not the decorations.

It was the atmosphere of joy and peace that filled every corner of their home.

Their children ran to greet me with hugs, treating me not as a foreign prince, but as a beloved uncle returning home.

As the evening progressed, I participated in traditions that felt both foreign and strangely familiar to my soul.

We sang songs about Jesus’s birth, though I could only hum along since I didn’t know the words.

The ambassador read from the Gospel of Luke about Mary and Joseph, the angels announcing Jesus’s birth, and the shepherds who came to worship the newborn king.

As he read these words in English, something deep within my spirit stirred with recognition, as if these stories were speaking directly to the longings I had carried my entire life.

When we gathered around their dining table, the ambassador asked me if I would like to participate in their Christmas prayer.

Without hesitation, I nodded yes, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

As we held hands around the table, he began thanking Jesus for his birth, his love, and his sacrifice for humanity.

He prayed for peace in the Middle East, for understanding between Christians and Muslims, and specifically thanked God for bringing me into their lives.

For the first time in 28 years, I felt like I was home.

The peace that settled over my heart during that prayer was unlike anything I had experienced in all my years of Islamic devotion.

After dinner, the ambassador’s wife handed me a wrapped gift, explaining that exchanging presents was part of their Christmas tradition.

Inside was a beautiful leather-bound Bible in both Arabic and English, along with several books about Christian faith written specifically for Muslims seeking truth.

As I held that Bible in my hands, I felt like I was holding something that could either save my soul or destroy my life.

The ambassador then asked me a question that pierced straight through to my heart.

Khalil, would you like to learn more about Jesus Christ? Not to convert you or pressure you, but simply to help you understand why we have such joy and peace.

The internal spiritual battle that raged within me at that moment was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Every fiber of my Islamic upbringing screamed that I was betraying Allah, my family, and my culture.

But my soul, starved for authentic spiritual connection, cried out for more of what I had experienced that evening.

I said yes.

What I didn’t know was that my palace security detail had been tracking my location through the GPS system in my vehicle, a standard protocol for all royal family members.

When I failed to return within the expected time frame for a diplomatic meeting, they had contacted the religious police to investigate my whereabouts.

As we sat in the ambassador’s living room, discussing the differences between Islamic and Christian teachings about Jesus, police vehicles were already surrounding the diplomatic compound.

The moment that shattered my Christmas piece came with a thunderous pounding on the front door.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever seen pure terror in the eyes of people who loved you? That was what I witnessed when the ambassador opened his door to find six members of our religious police demanding entry.

The look of horror on his wife’s face as she realized what my presence in their home on Christmas night meant for both of our families will haunt me forever.

As they dragged me away from the Christian home where I had found my first taste of genuine peace, I clutched the Bible they had given me against my chest, knowing it might be the last gift I would ever receive from people who truly loved me.

The religious police dragged me from the ambassador’s home like I was a common criminal, not a member of the royal family they had served their entire lives.

As they forced me into their vehicle, I caught one final glimpse of the ambassador’s family standing in their doorway, their faces frozen in horror at what my Christmas celebration had cost all of us.

The Bible and Christian books they had given me were immediately confiscated as evidence of my betrayal, handled by the officers like they were contaminated with poison rather than filled with hope.

The drive to the religious police headquarters passed in terrifying silence.

These men who had once bowed respectfully in my presence now refused to even look at me.

I realized that in their eyes I had transformed from a respected prince into something far worse than a common criminal.

I had become an apostate, someone who had betrayed not just the law, but the very foundation of our society.

The weight of what I had done began to crush down on my chest like a physical force, making it difficult to breathe.

They threw me into a concrete cell that measured no more than 6 ft by 8 ft with no windows and only a single dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

For 48 hours, they gave me no food and only small amounts of water, a common tactic used to weaken prisoners before interrogation.

But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the mental anguish of knowing that my family was probably already arranging my trial and punishment.

In Saudi Arabia, apostasy was not just a religious crime.

It was considered treason against the state and the royal family itself.

On the third day, they came for me.

My father stood in the interrogation room wearing his formal robes and the expression of a man whose heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

This was not the loving father who had proudly watched me memorize the Quran.

This was a stranger whose eyes burned with disappointment and rage.

Behind him stood my uncle, the chief religious judge for our province, along with two other Islamic scholars, whose job was to determine whether I could be saved or if I had crossed the point of no return.

My father’s first words cut through my soul like a blade.

You have brought shame upon our bloodline that will last for generations.

How could my son, whom I raised to be a leader in the faith, choose to celebrate the birth of a false prophet with infidels? His voice carried a pain that went beyond anger into something approaching grief, as if he was mourning my death while I still sat before him alive.

When I tried to explain the spiritual emptiness I had carried my entire life and how the Christian family had shown me genuine peace, my father’s face hardened into stone.

Peace? He shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.

You call betraying Allah and your family peace.

You call celebrating the lies of crusaders peace.

The peace you felt was the deception of Satan himself leading you away from the true path.

My uncle, the chief judge, spread photographs across the metal table between us.

Images of me singing Christmas songs, holding the Christian Bible, participating in their prayer.

Each photo felt like a nail being driven into my coffin.

These images will be presented as evidence in your trial, he said, with the cold detachment of a man who had condemned dozens of people to death.

The law is clear about apostasy and your participation in Christian worship constitutes complete rejection of Islam.

For 3 hours, they tried to convince me to recant everything that had happened on Christmas night.

They offered me ways to explain away my actions.

I could claim I was there as a spy to gather intelligence on Christian activities or that I was there under duress or that I had been drugged and was not responsible for my choices.

All I had to do was publicly denounce Christianity, burn the Bible they had confiscated, and return to my role as a faithful Muslim prince.

My inheritance would be restored, my position would be maintained, and this incident would be buried in palace secrecy.

But something had changed within my heart that could not be unchanged.

The peace I had experienced during that Christmas prayer.

The genuine love I had felt from the ambassador’s family and the hope I had discovered in reading about Jesus felt more real than anything I had ever experienced in 28 years of Islamic devotion.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, would you be able to deny the most genuine spiritual experience of your life to save your earthly position? I refused to recant.

The disappointment in my father’s eyes transformed into something approaching hatred.

“Then you are no longer my son,” he declared, his voice breaking with emotion.

“The disinheritance papers have already been prepared.

Your name will be removed from our family records.

You will be tried as a commoner, not as a prince, because no prince of our bloodline could commit such treachery.

” My mother was brought in to make one final appeal to my heart.

She had aged years in the three days since my arrest.

Her face stre with tears and her hands shaking as she reached toward me.

“My baby,” she whispered.

“Please tell them this was all a mistake.

Tell them you were confused or deceived.

I cannot lose my son to this madness.

” The pain in her voice nearly broke my resolve.

But I realized that agreeing to her plea would mean losing the first genuine spiritual connection I had ever discovered.

When I gently told her that I could not deny what I had experienced with the Christian family, she collapsed into my father’s arms, weeping like I had already died.

In many ways, I had died to them.

The son they had raised and loved for 28 years had been replaced by someone they could no longer recognize or accept.

The chief judge rendered his verdict with the mechanical precision of a man who had delivered such sentences many times before.

You are guilty of apostasy under Islamic law and treason against the royal family.

The sentence is death by fire to be carried out publicly as a warning to others who might consider betraying their faith.

Do you have any final words before this court? So, I’m asking you just as someone facing death would ask, “What would you say when everyone you’ve ever loved turns away from you for choosing truth over comfort?” I looked at my family one final time and said simply, “I pray that someday you will understand the peace I have found.

” They came for me at dawn on December 30th, 2016, exactly 5 days after the Christmas celebration that had sealed my fate.

The guards who escorted me to the public square were men I had known since childhood.

Palace security who had once protected me but now looked at me with disgust and fear.

They chained my hands behind my back with heavy iron shackles that cut into my wrists.

A deliberate humiliation designed to strip away any remaining dignity from my royal upbringing.

The public square where my execution would take place was already filling with hundreds of people by the time we arrived.

Word had spread quickly through Riad that a member of the royal family was being executed for apostasy, something that hadn’t happened in our kingdom for over 50 years.

I could see the mixture of excitement and horror on the faces of the crowd as they realized they were about to witness something that would be talked about for generations.

The wooden stake they changed me to had been specially constructed for this execution, standing 12 feet tall and surrounded by carefully arranged bundles of dry wood soaked in gasoline.

The smell of the fuel made my stomach turn as I realized these preparations had been made with meticulous care to ensure my death would be both public and agonizing.

This wasn’t just an execution.

It was a spectacle designed to terrify anyone who might consider following my path.

My uncle, the chief religious judge, stood before the crowd to read the charges against me.

His voice carried across the square through loudspeakers as he detailed my crimes.

This man, formerly known as Prince Khalil, has committed the ultimate betrayal of Allah and our kingdom.

He participated in Christian worship, accepted Christian literature, and refused multiple opportunities to repent of his apostasy.

Under Islamic law, and by royal decree, he is sentenced to death by fire.

The crowd’s response chilled my blood.

Many people cheered and shouted, “Alahu Akbar!” as if my death would somehow honor God.

while others watched in silent shock that someone from the royal family could fall so far.

I searched the faces in the crowd desperately for any sign of compassion or doubt, but found only religious fervor and bloodthirsty excitement.

They offered me one final opportunity to save my life.

The chief Imam approached me with a microphone, giving me the chance to publicly renounce Christianity and return to Islam before the entire kingdom.

Declare that there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet, he commanded.

Denounce the false teachings of the Christian crusaders and your life will be spared.

Standing there chained to that wooden stake, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon me, I faced the most crucial decision of my existence.

Ask yourself this question.

When facing certain death, would you have the courage to choose truth over survival? Every instinct in my body screamed at me to say the words that would save my life, to return to the comfort and safety of my former existence.

But something deeper than survival instinct had taken hold of my soul during that Christmas celebration.

I looked directly into the crowd and spoke the words that sealed my fate.

I cannot deny the peace I have found in Jesus Christ.

I cannot return to the emptiness I carried for 28 years.

If this is the price for discovering truth, then I accept it willingly.

The crowd erupted in angry shouts and curses.

Several people picked up stones and hurled them at me, striking my face and chest while the guards made no effort to stop them.

The chief Imam’s face contorted with rage as he realized I would not provide the public spectacle of repentance he had hoped for.

“Then you will burn for your blasphemy,” he declared, “and your death will serve as a warning to all who would betray the true faith.

” The chief imam himself carried the torch that would light my execution p.

This was not just a legal punishment.

It was a religious ritual designed to purify the community from the contamination of my apostasy.

As he approached the gasoline soaked wood around my feet, his eyes burned with the conviction of a man who believed he was doing God’s work by ending my life.

When the torch touched the fuel soaked kindling, the flames erupted with terrifying speed and intensity.

The heat hit my legs first, searing through my clothing and attacking my skin with agony beyond anything I had ever imagined possible.

The physical pain was indescribable.

But what tormented me even more was the realization that I was about to die, surrounded by hundreds of people celebrating my destruction.

As the flames climbed higher around my body, consuming my clothes and beginning to char my flesh, I found myself remembering the ambassador’s words about Jesus saving those who called upon his name.

In my desperation and agony, with fire eating away at my legs and the crowd cheering my death, I did something that would have been unthinkable just weeks earlier.

I cried out in English, the language I had learned from my Christian friends.

Jesus, if you are real, save me now.

I believe in you.

Please don’t let me die like this.

The words came from the deepest part of my soul, not as a bargaining plea, but as complete surrender to the only source of hope I could imagine.

In that moment of ultimate terror, the crowd couldn’t understand my English words, but they sensed something significant was happening.

Some people shouted from me to speak in Arabic, while others threw more stones to silence my foreign prayers.

The flames had now reached my waist and were climbing toward my chest when something impossible began to happen.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine the most unlikely miracle you could ever witness.

In the middle of the Saudi desert during the dry season, with not a single cloud visible in the sky, rain began to fall.

Not a gentle drizzle, but a torrential downpour that appeared from absolutely nowhere, as if the heavens themselves had suddenly opened to answer my desperate prayer.

The effect was immediate and supernatural.

The flames that had been consuming my body were completely extinguished within seconds, leaving me standing in the middle of what should have been my funeral p soaked to the skin, but miraculously alive.

The crowd’s cheers turned to screams of terror as they witnessed something that defied every law of nature and challenged everything they believed about God’s will.

The supernatural rainstorm lasted exactly long enough to extinguish every flame around my body, then stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

I stood there in the middle of the execution square, soaked to the skin but breathing, while hundreds of witnesses stared at me in absolute terror.

The religious police who had been so confident in carrying out Allah’s judgment now backed away from me like I carried some kind of supernatural plague.

Even my uncle, the chief judge who had condemned me to death, stood frozen with his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

What happened next revealed the true miracle of my survival.

As the crowd began to disperse in fear and confusion, I looked down at my body, expecting to see the horrific burns that should have covered 90% of my skin.

Instead, I discovered something that the medical staff at the hospital would later be unable to explain.

Only small patches of my legs showed any burn damage at all.

My torso, arms, face, and hands were completely untouched by the flames that hundreds of people had watched consume my body for several minutes.

The guards were too terrified to approach me for nearly an hour.

They whispered among themselves about jin and supernatural intervention while I stood chained to the wooden stake, praising Jesus in both English and Arabic for saving my life.

When they finally worked up the courage to unchain me, their hands shook so violently they could barely operate the locks.

These same men who had handled executions for years were completely undone by witnessing something that challenged everything they believed about divine judgment.

At the hospital, I experienced what could only be described as a spiritual rebirth.

Lying in that bed with minimal bandages covering the few burns I had sustained, I made the most important decision of my life.

I formally accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.

Not out of gratitude for being rescued, but because I finally understood that the peace I had been seeking my entire life could only be found in a personal relationship with him.

The emptiness that had plagued me for 28 years was completely filled for the first time.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine what it would feel like to be spiritually reborn at 28 years old.

Every prayer I had ever prayed to Allah had felt like shouting into an empty cave.

But when I spoke to Jesus, I felt like I was talking to someone who knew me intimately and loved me unconditionally.

The Bible verses the ambassador’s family had shown me suddenly made perfect sense, not as ancient stories, but as living truth that applied directly to my situation.

The medical staff treating me were completely baffled by my condition.

Dr.

Raman, who had been practicing burn medicine for 15 years, examined me three different times because he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

According to every witness report, you should be dead, he told me privately.

The burns you do have are consistent with brief flame exposure, but multiple people swear they watched fire consume your entire body for several minutes.

Medically speaking, your survival is impossible.

But surviving the execution was only the beginning of my trials.

Within 24 hours of the miracle, the royal family made their position crystal clear.

I was no longer welcome in Saudi Arabia.

My father sent a message through an intermediary that I had 48 hours to leave the country permanently or I would face assassination by palace guards who would not hesitate the next time.

The miraculous survival that had saved my life from execution had also made me too dangerous to allow within the kingdom’s borders.

The official exile papers were delivered to my hospital bed along with a new passport bearing a different name.

Prince Khalil was legally declared dead.

The man who survived the execution was now a stateless refugee with no family, no inheritance, and no country to call home.

My mother was forbidden from seeing me before my departure, and my siblings were ordered never to speak my name again.

In the span of one week, I had lost everything that had defined my identity for nearly three decades.

The British ambassador, despite the political complications my situation had created for his mission, arranged for my secret departure from Saudi Arabia.

His families, Christian compassion proved stronger than diplomatic pressure, and they helped coordinate my escape through a network of underground Christians who specialized in helping religious refugees.

The same people my family had always called enemies became my salvation during the darkest period of my life.

My first destination was a safe house in Jordan where I spent 6 weeks recovering physically and emotionally from everything I had endured.

The other residents were fellow Muslim converts to Christianity who understood exactly what I was experiencing.

the grief of losing family, the fear of assassination attempts, and the overwhelming joy of discovering genuine relationship with God.

For the first time since my conversion, I was surrounded by people who shared both my faith and my struggles.

The loneliness of those early weeks in exile was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Having been raised in a palace surrounded by hundreds of people, I suddenly found myself alone in a foreign country with only the clothes on my back and a few hundred that the ambassador’s family had secretly provided.

But what amazed me was that despite losing my royal title, my inheritance, my family, and my homeland, I felt more peace than I had ever experienced during my privileged life as a Saudi prince.

Learning to live as a common person after 28 years of royal treatment was humbling beyond description.

I had to learn basic skills like grocery shopping, cooking my own meals, and doing laundry.

Things that had always been done for me by servants.

But each small victory in independence felt like a celebration of my new life in Christ.

So I’m asking you, what would you be willing to give up to find genuine peace and purpose in your life? The underground Christian community in Jordan became my new family, teaching me how to study the Bible, how to pray in a way that actually connected with God, and how to live out my faith despite constant danger.

For the first time in my life, I was loved not because of my title or wealth, but simply because I was a fellow believer seeking to follow Jesus.

The transformation in my heart was so complete that I could honestly say I wouldn’t trade my exile for my former palace if given the choice.

After 6 months of recovery in Jordan, I felt God calling me to do something that seemed absolutely insane.

Returned to ministry among Muslims who were seeking spiritual truth.

Despite the constant threat to my life and the trauma I had endured, I couldn’t shake the conviction that my survival had a greater purpose than just saving my own soul.

The same Jesus who had miraculously rescued me from the flames was now asking me to help rescue others from the spiritual emptiness I had known for 28 years.

My first opportunity came when I met Hassan, a young Pakistani man who was questioning his Islamic faith after years of unanswered prayers.

Like me, he had tried everything within Islam to find peace, but felt only spiritual hunger that grew stronger with each passing day.

When I shared my testimony with him in a quiet cafe in Aman, his eyes filled with tears as he recognized his own struggles in my story.

3 weeks later, Hassan accepted Christ as his savior, and I had the incredible privilege of baptizing him in secret at a Christian safe house.

The work was dangerous beyond imagination.

Saudi intelligence agencies had placed a substantial bounty on my head, and several assassination attempts were made during my first two years in ministry.

Once a gunman followed me for 3 days through the streets of Istanbul before other believers helped me escape to a different country.

Another time poison was placed in my food at a restaurant where I was meeting with seeking Muslims and only the quick action of a Christian doctor saved my life.

But with each attempt on my life, my resolve to continue sharing Christ grew stronger rather than weaker.

What sustained me through these trials was witnessing the incredible transformations that occurred when Muslims encountered the genuine love of Jesus.

I watched former jihadists become passionate evangelists for peace.

I saw women who had been treated as property discover their worth as daughters of God.

I witnessed young men who had been raised to hate Christians become bridgeuilders between our communities.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you be willing to risk to help others find the same freedom and peace that transformed your life? The ministry expanded as I began translating Christian materials into various Arabic dialects, making the gospel accessible to Muslims in their heart language.

Working with other former Muslims who had converted to Christianity, we developed materials that address the specific questions and objections that Islamic backgrounds create.

We explained how Jesus could be both fully God and fully man.

How the Trinity worked within monotheistic belief and how Christianity fulfilled rather than contradicted the spiritual longings that Islam had awakened but couldn’t satisfy.

My personal life during these early ministry years was marked by profound loneliness.

The constant moving from country to country to avoid assassination attempts made it impossible to form lasting friendships or romantic relationships.

I lived under assumed names, changed my appearance regularly, and could never stay in one place long enough to feel truly settled.

There were nights when the isolation felt almost unbearable, and I questioned whether the price of following Christ was worth the sacrifice of normal human connection.

But God had plans for my personal happiness that I never could have imagined.

In 2019, while attending an underground Christian conference in Lebanon, I met Sarah, an American missionary who had dedicated her life to serving persecuted Christians throughout the Middle East.

What drew me to her wasn’t just her beauty, but her complete devotion to Jesus and her fearless love for people like me, who had lost everything for their faith.

She looked at me not as a former Saudi prince or a famous convert, but as a fellow believer whom Christ had called to serve alongside her.

Our courtship had to be conducted in complete secrecy with meetings arranged through encrypted communications and gatherings disguised as ministry conferences.

When I finally asked her to marry me, I had to explain that becoming my wife meant accepting a life of constant danger.

perpetual relocation and the possibility that she might become a widow at any moment.

Her response revealed the depth of her faith.

Jesus called me to love and serve him without counting the cost.

Marrying you is just an extension of that calling.

Our wedding ceremony was held in a safe house basement with only six people present.

But it was the most joyful day of my life.

Standing before a former Muslim pastor who had also survived persecution, exchanging vows with a woman who loved Jesus more than she loved safety or comfort.

I understood what it meant to have gained an eternal family, even after losing my earthly one.

Look inside your own heart right now and consider whether you’ve ever loved someone enough to sacrifice everything for them.

That’s how Sarah loved both Jesus and me.

We settled temporarily in a small European country where I could continue ministry work while Sarah established programs for helping other persecuted Christian refugees.

Our home became a haven for Muslims who were questioning their faith.

Former Christians who had been disowned by their families and believers who needed encouragement to continue following Christ despite opposition.

For the first time since my conversion, I experienced what it meant to live in Christian community, where love was demonstrated through action rather than just words.

In 2021, Sarah gave birth to our first child, a daughter we named Grace because she represented God’s unmmerited favor in our lives.

Holding my newborn daughter in my arms, I wept as I realized this little girl would grow up knowing Jesus from her first breath, never experiencing the spiritual emptiness that had plagued my early life.

She would never have to choose between her family and her faith because her family was built on faith from the foundation.

The ministry continued to grow as more former Muslims joined our team, each bringing their own testimony of God’s saving grace.

We established secret Christian schools in several countries, providing education for children from Christian refugee families who couldn’t attend public schools safely.

We created support networks for converts who had been rejected by their families, offering both emotional counseling and practical assistance with housing and employment.

Today, 8 years after my execution and miraculous survival, I can count more than 200 Muslims who have come to Christ through our ministry efforts.

Each conversion represents not just a single soul saved, but often entire families who are eventually reached through that first believer’s testimony.

The ripple effects of my Christmas celebration in 2016 continued to spread throughout the Muslim world in ways I never could have imagined.

when I first accepted that invitation from the ambassador’s family.

So, I’m asking you just as someone who lost everything earthly and gained everything eternal would ask, what impossible situation is God calling you to trust him through? What fire is he asking you to walk through for his glory? Look inside your own heart right now and honestly evaluate whether you’re willing to say yes to Jesus regardless of what it might cost you in terms of family approval, social acceptance, or material security.

My story isn’t unique because God chose to intervene miraculously in my execution.

It’s unique because God chose to use my willingness to lose everything for the sake of finding him.

Jesus died for Muslims just as much as he died for people from Christian backgrounds.

No person is beyond God’s reach, regardless of their religious upbringing, family pressure, or cultural expectations.

The same Jesus who saved me from both spiritual death and physical flames is ready to save anyone who calls upon his name with genuine faith.