My name is Wa.

I am 28 years old, born into Saudi royalty in 1989.

On September 12th, 2017, my own mother tried to kill me for the fifth time.

But that night, Jesus Christ himself appeared in my palace room and changed everything forever.

What I’m about to tell you will challenge everything you think you know about God’s power.

I want you to picture the most beautiful prison you’ve ever imagined.

Marble floors that gleamed like mirrors, gold fixtures that cost more than most people’s homes, and windows that overlooked gardens so perfect they looked like paintings.

That was my life in the Saudi royal palace.

Every day I woke up in silk sheets worth thousands of dollars.

But I felt like I was suffocating.

My mother controlled every breath I took.

She would wake me before dawn for fajger prayers, standing over my bed like a shadow until I rose.

I remember the cold tiles under my bare feet as we walked to the prayer room, the sound of our footsteps echoing through empty corridors.

She would position herself directly behind me during prayers, watching every movement, listening to every word I recited from the Quran.

If I stumbled over a verse or showed the slightest hesitation, her fingers would dig into my shoulder like claws.

Father was rarely home, always traveling for political meetings or state business.

When he was present, he existed in his own world of government affairs and international phone calls.

I was just another asset to be managed, another piece in the royal chess game.

The conversations at our dinner table revolved around marriage prospects with other royal families, diplomatic alliances, and maintaining our family’s reputation.

I sat there night after night, cutting my food into smaller and smaller pieces, wondering if anyone saw me as more than just a bargaining chip.

You cannot imagine what it feels like to have everything and nothing at the same time.

My closets were filled with designer clothes I never chose.

My jewelry boxes overflowed with diamonds and emeralds that felt heavy around my neck like chains.

The servants would bow when I walked by, but their eyes were empty, distant.

They feared mother more than they respected me.

Even the palace walls covered in priceless art and intricate Islamic calligraphy felt like they were closing in on me day by day.

During Ramadan, the emptiness became unbearable.

We would fast all day, then break our fast with elaborate meals that could feed entire villages.

Mother would lecture me about spiritual purification while we ate dates and drank sweet tea.

She spoke of drawing closer to Allah, of finding peace through submission.

But all I felt was a growing hollow ache in my chest.

I remember staring at the ornate ceiling of our dining room, thinking that if this was spiritual fulfillment, why did I feel so completely lost? The five daily prayers became mechanical rituals.

I would kneel on prayer rugs worth more than cars facing Mecca, reciting words that felt foreign in my mouth.

Mother insisted on perfect Arabic pronunciation, perfect posture, perfect submission.

But behind my closed eyelids, instead of feeling Allah’s presence, I felt only darkness.

I began to wonder if God could hear prayers that came from such an empty heart.

I had everything money could buy, but my soul felt like a desert.

Have you ever felt that kind of spiritual thirst? That desperate hunger for something real, something authentic, something that actually touched the deepest part of who you are? That was my daily existence.

I was dying of spiritual starvation in the middle of a feast.

The turning point came on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in February 2017.

I was walking through the east wing of the palace, a section usually reserved for the staff quarters.

I rarely ventured there, but that day I needed to escape mother’s constant surveillance.

She was hosting a gathering of royal wives in the main salon, and their conversations about jewelry and gossip made me feel physically ill.

As I turned a corner near the servant staircase, I heard a soft thud behind me.

When I looked back, I saw Maria, one of our Filipino housemmaids, scrambling to pick up something from the floor.

She was on her knees, frantically gathering scattered papers, her face flushed with panic.

Without thinking, I bent down to help her.

That is when I saw it.

Among the fallen papers was a small, worn book with a simple black cover.

Gold letters spelled out words I had never seen before.

Holy Bible.

My heart started racing for reasons I could not understand.

Maria’s eyes filled with terror as she realized what I had seen.

She clutched the book to her chest and whispered desperate apologies in broken Arabic.

I had heard whispers about the Bible always spoken in hushed, fearful tones.

Mother had told me it was a corrupted book filled with lies about a false prophet named Jesus.

She said Christians were misguided people who worshiped three gods instead of the one true Allah.

But holding that small book in my hands, I felt something I had never experienced before.

It was like touching something alive, something that hummed with an energy I could not explain.

Maria begged me not to tell mother what I had seen.

The penalty for a servant bringing Christian materials into our Islamic household could be imprisonment or deportation back to the Philippines.

Her children depended on the money she sent home from her work in our palace.

As I looked into her frightened eyes, I made a decision that would change everything.

Instead of reporting her, I asked her a question that surprised us both.

I asked her why she risked everything to keep that book hidden.

Her answer was simple but profound.

She said that without Jesus, life was not worth living even in paradise.

She said the Bible contained words of life, words that fed her soul when everything else left her hungry.

That night, I could not sleep.

I kept thinking about Maria’s words, about the strange warmth I felt when I touched that forbidden book.

I began to wonder what secrets it contained that made a poor woman risk everything to keep it close to her heart.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly curious about something beyond the golden walls of my beautiful prison.

The next few days after encountering Maria’s Bible felt like walking on burning sand.

Every time mother looked at me during our morning prayers, I was certain she could read the curiosity burning in my eyes.

She had always possessed an almost supernatural ability to detect rebellion in our household.

Servants would whisper that she could smell disobedience like perfume in the air.

I began watching mother more carefully than ever before.

During our afternoon tea sessions, when she would lecture me about proper Islamic behavior and royal duties, I noticed how her eyes would scan my face for any sign of defiance.

She spoke constantly about the importance of pure faith, about how Islam was the only true path to Allah, and how Christians and Jews had corrupted their holy books.

But now her words sounded different to me, like she was trying too hard to convince herself as much as me.

Three days after my encounter with Maria, I made the most dangerous decision of my life up to that point.

I decided I had to read that Bible for myself.

The hunger in my soul had grown so intense that I was willing to risk mother’s rage to satisfy it.

That evening, after the final prayer of the day, I waited until the palace grew quiet and made my way back to the servants’s quarters, I found Maria in the laundry room, folding bed sheets by herself.

When she saw me approaching, her face went pale with fear.

She immediately began apologizing again, assuming I had come to punish her for the Bible incident.

But when I quietly asked her if I could borrow the book for one night, she stared at me as if I had asked her to help me steal the moon.

She explained in whispered Arabic that lending me the Bible would be signing her own death warrant.

If mother discovered a servant had given Christian materials to a royal family member, Maria would not just lose her job.

She would face serious criminal charges.

But I pressed her, telling her about the emptiness I felt, about the questions that kept me awake at night.

Finally, she agreed to let me read just a few pages right there in the laundry room where no one would think to look for a princess.

That first reading changed everything.

Maria opened the Bible to something called the Gospel of Matthew, and I read the words of Jesus for the first time in my life.

The passage spoke about blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled.

Those words hit me like lightning.

I had been hungering and thirsting for something my entire life but I had never been able to name it.

Jesus called it righteousness and he promised it could be satisfied.

But it was the next passage that completely undid me.

Jesus said to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

In Islam, I had been taught about justice and submission to Allah’s will.

But this was something entirely different.

This was a love so radical it seemed impossible.

I thought about all the people in our palace who lived in fear, all the servants who trembled when mother walked by, and I wondered what it would look like to love instead of intimidate.

That night, I snuck back to my room with those words burning in my heart.

For the first time in my life, I tried praying to the God of Christians.

I did not know how to do it properly.

So, I simply whispered into my pillow, telling this Jesus about the emptiness inside me, about my longing for something real.

I asked him if he could hear the prayers of a Saudi princess who was supposed to belong to Allah.

The next morning, mother noticed something different about me immediately.

During our morning prayers, she commented that I seemed distracted, that my recitation of the Quran lacked proper reverence.

Her dark eyes studied my face like she was reading a suspicious document.

I tried to act normal, but the words of Jesus kept echoing in my mind, making the Arabic prayers feel hollow and mechanical.

Over the next two weeks, I became obsessed with finding opportunities to read more of the Bible.

Maria and I developed a secret system.

During her afternoon cleaning rounds, she would leave a few pages tucked inside certain books in the palace library.

I would retrieve them during my supposed study time and hide them inside my Islamic theology textbooks.

The irony was not lost on me that I was hiding the words of Christ inside books about Islamic doctrine.

Have you ever felt that pull in your spirit when truth calls to you even when it is dangerous? That is what those stolen moments of Bible reading felt like.

Every page I read made me more hungry for the next one.

Jesus spoke about abundant life, about being born again, about becoming a new creation.

These concepts were completely foreign to everything I had been taught.

Yet they resonated in the deepest part of my soul, like music I had been waiting my whole life to hear.

But with each passing day, mother grew more suspicious.

She began showing up unexpectedly in places where I would normally be alone.

She started asking pointed questions about my daily activities, about books I was reading, about conversations I was having with staff members.

I realized she was conducting her own investigation into my changing behavior.

The breakthrough moment came when I read about Jesus calling himself the way, the truth, and the life.

In Islam, we were taught that there were many paths to Allah, but that Islamic submission was the most direct route.

But Jesus claimed to be the only way to God the Father.

This was either the most arrogant statement ever made or it was the most important truth in the universe.

I had to decide which one I believed.

That decision became urgent when mother discovered torn Bible pages hidden in my copy of Islamic juristprudence.

I had been careless, leaving a corner of paper visible, and her sharp eyes caught it immediately.

She pulled out the pages slowly, her face transforming from confusion to horror to rage in the span of seconds.

The Gospel of John chapter 3 was spread across our study table like evidence at a crime scene.

Mother’s voice was deadly calm when she asked me where these pages came from.

I could have blamed Maria, could have claimed I found them somewhere and was simply curious.

But something inside me, something new and bold that I did not recognize, made me tell her the truth.

I told her I had been reading about Jesus and that his words were filling the emptiness in my heart, that Islam had never touched.

The slap came so fast I never saw it coming.

Mother’s hand connected with my face with enough force to knock me sideways in my chair.

But it was not the physical pain that shocked me.

It was the look of absolute betrayal and fury in her eyes.

She spoke words I will never forget.

She said I had dishonored our family, our faith, and our royal bloodline.

She said she would rather see me dead than see me become a Christian.

At the time, I thought she was speaking metaphorically.

I had no idea she meant those words literally.

I had no idea that in her mind she had already begun planning my murder.

The first poisoning attempt came exactly one week after mother discovered those Bible pages in my room.

She invited me to a traditional Arabic tea ceremony with my aunt and two female cousins.

Something that had always been a peaceful family ritual in our household.

I should have known something was wrong when mother insisted on preparing the tea herself, dismissing our usual servants with unusual harshness.

The ornate silver tea service gleamed on the low table in our formal sitting room.

Mother poured the steaming mint tea with ceremonial precision, her movements graceful and deliberate.

When she handed me my cup, she watched my face intently as I brought it to my lips.

The tea had a strange bitter aftertaste that I had never noticed before.

But when I mentioned it, mother insisted it was a new blend from Yemen that was supposed to be particularly good for spiritual clarity.

Within 30 minutes, my stomach began cramping with pain so severe I doubled over on the silk cushions.

The room started spinning around me, and I could hear my aunt asking mother, “What was wrong with me?” But mother’s voice sounded distant and strangely calm as she suggested I was probably coming down with food poisoning.

The cramps intensified until I was vomiting uncontrollably, my body rejecting whatever poison was burning through my system.

Our palace doctors were baffled by my symptoms.

They ran test after test but could find no medical explanation for the severe gastric distress that lasted for three days.

I remember lying in my bed feeling like my insides were on fire while mother sat beside me reading Quran verses about Allah’s judgment on the disobedient.

Her presence felt cold and menacing in a way that made my skin crawl.

But I was too sick to understand why.

The second attempt came during Ramadan in May at our traditional ifar feast when we broke our daily fast.

The entire extended family had gathered in our grand dining hall, and the table was loaded with dates, lamb, rice, and traditional sweets.

Mother had personally overseen the meal preparation, claiming she wanted everything to be perfect for such an important religious observance.

I was particularly hungry that evening because I had been fasting and praying more intensely than usual, seeking answers about my growing faith in Jesus.

During those long Ramadan days without food or water, I found myself praying to Christ instead of Allah, asking him to reveal himself to me more clearly.

The contradiction of fasting for Islamic reasons while my heart was turning toward Christianity created a spiritual tension that left me emotionally drained.

Mother served me personally from a special platter that she said contained my favorite dishes prepared exactly the way I liked them.

The food tasted normal at first, but halfway through the meal, I began feeling dizzy and nauseous.

This time, the symptoms hit much faster and harder than before.

I collapsed right there at the dinner table, my face hitting my plate as my body convulsed uncontrollably.

The family chaos that followed was terrifying.

My father rushed home from a government meeting.

My siblings were crying and the palace medical team worked frantically to stabilize my vital signs.

For several hours, they thought I might die.

I remember floating in and out of consciousness, feeling like I was drowning in darkness while medical equipment beeped around me like an electronic funeral song.

But in those moments between consciousness and death, something extraordinary happened.

I began seeing visions of Jesus, not clear enough to call them full appearances, but definite enough that I knew he was there with me.

I felt his presence surrounding me like warm light, and I heard a voice that I somehow knew was his, telling me not to be afraid, that he had plans for my life that could not be stopped by poison or persecution.

When I finally recovered enough to think clearly, I began to realize what was happening.

Mother’s cold reaction to my near-death experience was the final clue I needed.

While father paced the medical wing in genuine distress and my siblings brought me flowers and worried messages, mother sat in the corner with an expression that looked more like disappointment than relief.

She seemed frustrated that I had survived, not grateful that her daughter was alive.

The pattern became undeniable when I started paying closer attention to the timing of these mysterious illnesses.

They always occurred within days of my most intense Bible reading sessions or my boldest prayers to Jesus.

Mother had somehow developed a supernatural ability to detect when my faith was deepening.

And she was responding with calculated attempts to kill me.

But instead of frightening me away from Christianity, these poisoning attempts only strengthened my conviction that Jesus was real and that he was protecting me.

Every time I should have died, I survived.

Every time the doctor said my symptoms were medically inexplicable, I recovered completely within days.

I began to understand that I was witnessing supernatural intervention, that Christ was keeping me alive for purposes I did not yet understand.

Ask yourself this question.

What would it take for you to abandon your faith? Would the threat of death be enough to make you turn away from what you knew to be true? For me, even facing murder at the hands of my own mother, I found that my hunger for Jesus only grew stronger.

The more she tried to poison my body, the more alive my spirit became.

The third poisoning attempt in July was the most sophisticated yet.

mother convinced me that my recurring stomach problems were due to a digestive disorder that ran in royal bloodlines and she arranged for a special medication to be prepared by palace physicians.

She personally delivered the pills to my room each morning standing over me while I swallowed them with water claiming she needed to monitor my progress.

These were not quick acting poisons like the previous attempts.

This time mother was trying to kill me slowly.

methodically in a way that would look like a progressive illness rather than sudden food poisoning.

For two weeks, I grew weaker and sicker each day.

My hair began falling out.

My skin took on a grayish color, and I could barely keep food down.

The palace doctors were convinced I had developed some rare autoimmune condition.

But during those two weeks of slow poisoning, my spiritual life reached new heights of intensity.

Unable to leave my bed, I spent entire days in prayer and meditation, sometimes feeling so close to Jesus that I could almost touch him.

I memorized entire chapters of the Bible that Maria continued to smuggle to me in pieces, hiding verses inside my medication bottles and vitamin containers.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Have you ever experienced that kind of supernatural peace in the middle of suffering? That sense that God is using even your pain for purposes beyond your understanding.

That was my daily reality during those weeks when mother was slowly killing me.

I knew I was dying, but I also knew that death could not separate me from the love of Christ.

The hallucinations and seizures that came with the third poisoning attempt were terrifying, but they also became spiritual experiences unlike anything I had ever imagined.

During the worst episodes, when my body was convulsing and my mind was fracturing, I would suddenly find myself in what felt like the presence of God himself, surrounded by peace and light and love, so intense that returning to my poisoned body felt like falling back into a dark prison.

Mother’s increasing desperation became obvious to everyone in the palace except father, who was too absorbed in international political crisis to notice the war being waged in his own home.

She began making mistakes, asking too many questions about my symptoms, showing up in the medical wing at odd hours to check on my condition.

The servants started whispering among themselves, and I could see suspicion growing in their eyes when they watched her.

But I was growing stronger spiritually, even as my body grew weaker physically.

Every night, I would pray for strength to endure whatever was coming next.

And every morning, I would wake up with supernatural boldness to continue following Jesus no matter what the cost.

I was beginning to understand that this was not just about my personal faith journey.

This was spiritual warfare and I was fighting for something much bigger than my own life.

The fourth poisoning attempt came in August through my royal perfume and it nearly destroyed our family’s international reputation.

Mother had given me a beautiful crystal bottle of what she claimed was a rare French fragrance, supposedly a gift from a European diplomat’s wife.

The bottle was exquisite with gold filigree and my initials engraved on the stopper.

I was supposed to wear it to a formal state dinner where father was hosting ministers from several Gulf nations.

I applied the perfume generously to my wrists and neck as mother had instructed, telling me that the fragrance needed to be strong enough to make a lasting impression on the foreign dignitaries wives.

The scent was unusual with an underlying metallic note that I attributed to expensive exotic ingredients.

Within minutes of putting it on, my skin began to burn and tingle.

But mother assured me this was normal for highquality perfumes with concentrated oils.

20 minutes into the formal dinner, while I was making polite conversation with the wife of Kuwait’s finance minister, the room began spinning violently around me.

My vision blurred, my words started slurring mid-sentence, and suddenly I collapsed face first into my soup bowl in front of 30 international guests.

The crash of dishes and collective gasp of the dinner party echoed through our formal dining hall like an explosion.

The diplomatic embarrassment was catastrophic.

Father had to make emergency phone calls to explain why a Saudi princess had collapsed unconscious during a state dinner.

While foreign security teams demanded to know if there had been an assassination attempt, international doctors were flown in from London and Geneva, creating a media circus that threatened to expose our family’s private crisis to the global press.

But during the three days I spent unconscious in our palace medical wing, something profound happened in the spiritual realm.

I found myself in what I can only describe as a throne room that defied all earthly description.

I saw Jesus seated in majesty, surrounded by light so brilliant it should have blinded me, but instead filled me with indescribable peace.

He spoke to me without words, communicating directly to my spirit that my time of testing was almost over.

He showed me visions of mother’s growing madness, her obsession with destroying my faith, consuming her like a disease.

I saw her preparing the final poison that would be stronger than anything she had used before, concentrated enough to kill me within minutes rather than hours or days.

But he also showed me that this final attempt would become the moment of my complete deliverance.

The miracle that would prove his power to everyone in our palace.

When I finally regained consciousness, the international doctors were amazed by my complete recovery.

They had detected traces of exotic toxins in my bloodstream that should have caused permanent neurological damage.

Yet all my brain scans and blood tests came back completely normal.

One London specialist quietly told father that my survival was medically impossible, that whatever had poisoned me should have killed me or left me in a permanent vegetative state.

Mother’s reaction to my recovery was the most telling evidence yet of her murderous intentions.

While father wept with relief and my siblings celebrated with prayers of thanksgiving, mother stood in the corner of my hospital room with an expression of pure fury.

She was not relieved that I had survived.

She was angry that her plan had failed again.

The mask of maternal concern was finally slipping completely off her face.

That night, after all the doctors and family members had left, mother came to my bedside for what I now realize was a final warning.

She told me that my survival was bringing shame and suspicion on our entire family, that mysterious illnesses were making people ask dangerous questions about our household.

She said that if I truly loved our family, I would stop whatever I was doing to bring Allah’s judgment upon myself.

But her words no longer had any power over me.

The visions I had experienced while unconscious had given me supernatural boldness and clarity about what was really happening.

I looked directly into her eyes and told her that I knew she had been poisoning me and that I knew why.

I told her that I would never stop following Jesus Christ, not even if it killed me, because I had seen his glory with my own eyes, and nothing on earth could compare to that vision.

The rage that filled her face in that moment was inhuman.

Her beautiful features twisted into something demonic, and she spoke words that still echo in my nightmares.

She said that she had given me life and she had the right to to take it away.

She said that a daughter who dishonored Islam and the royal family deserved nothing but death.

She said that she would rather see me in the grave than see me become a Christian.

Then she leaned close to my ear and whispered the words that made my blood freeze.

She told me that her next attempt would be the last one, that she had acquired something special for the occasion, something that would end this situation permanently.

She said I had until the end of September to renounce Jesus and return to proper Islamic faith or she would make sure I never saw October.

The final weeks of August and early September became a strange period of supernatural peace mixed with growing tension.

I knew that mother was planning something catastrophic, but I also knew that Jesus was with me in a way that transcended physical protection.

I spent those days in the deepest prayer and Bible study of my life, preparing my heart for whatever was coming.

Maria had become bolder about smuggling scripture to me, somehow sensing that our time was running short.

She would leave entire chapters of the Gospel of John hidden in my bedroom, and I would memorize them during the long nights when sleep was impossible.

The words of Jesus became like armor around my soul, protecting me from the fear that should have consumed me.

Can you imagine knowing that someone who loves you is planning to murder you? The psychological warfare was almost worse than the physical poisoning.

Mother continued to play the role of concerned parent in front of father and the palace staff, bringing me special foods and asking about my health with apparent tenderness.

But her eyes carried the cold calculation of an executioner, and her smiles felt like death masks.

On September 10th, mother announced that she was planning a special family celebration for September 12th, supposedly to thank Allah for my recovery from the recent poisoning incidents.

She said we would have a traditional ceremony with ceremonial drinks and formal prayers, just our immediate family in the private family quarters where we could worship intimately without the presence of servants or staff.

I knew immediately that this would be the final attempt.

September 12th was going to be the day mother tried to kill me with her most concentrated poison yet.

But instead of terror, I felt an almost supernatural calm settling over my spirit.

I had been walking toward this moment for months, and now that it was finally arriving, I felt ready to face whatever God had planned.

That final night before the ceremony, I spent hours in prayer talking to Jesus like he was sitting right there in my room with me.

I told him that I trusted him completely, that whether I lived or died on September 12th, I belonged to him forever.

I asked him to use whatever happened for his glory and for the salvation of my family, especially mother whose soul was being consumed by hatred and fear.

As I finally fell asleep in the early hours of September 12th, my last conscious thought was a prayer that Jesus would be glorified in whatever was about to unfold.

I had no idea that I was about to witness the most spectacular divine intervention in our family’s history.

An intervention so powerful that it would change everything forever.

Jesus, if you are real, I need you now.

Those words were about to become the most important prayer of my life.

September 12th, 2017 began like any other day, but I could feel electricity in the air from the moment I opened my eyes.

Mother had arranged for our family ceremony to take place at sunset in our private family quarters, away from the servants and palace staff.

She told father it would be an intimate time of thanksgiving to Allah for my recent recovery, but I knew it was carefully orchestrated to be my execution.

Throughout the day, mother moved through the palace with unusual energy, personally overseeing every detail of the evening’s arrangements.

She dismissed our regular kitchen staff early and insisted on preparing the ceremonial drinks herself, claiming that this spiritual occasion required her personal touch.

When I walked past the kitchen that afternoon, I saw her working alone with various bottles and powders, her movements precise and deliberate, like a chemist creating a deadly formula.

Father seemed genuinely pleased about the family ceremony, unaware that his wife was planning to murder his daughter in the name of religious honor.

My younger brother and sister were excited about the special gathering, chattering about wearing their finest traditional clothes for what they thought would be a celebration of my healing.

The innocence in their voices made my heart break, knowing they were about to witness something that would traumatize them forever.

As the sun began to set, painting our private family room in golden light, we gathered around the low table where mother had arranged an elaborate display of ceremonial cups and traditional refreshments.

She had chosen our most precious family heirlooms for the occasion, crystal goblets that had belonged to our great grandmother, goldplated serving trays that were only used for the most sacred religious observances, and silk cushions embroidered with Quranic verses about Allah’s mercy and justice.

The irony of that setting still haunts me.

Here was mother surrounded by symbols of divine mercy, preparing to commit the ultimate act of hatred against her own child.

She had dressed herself in pure white robes, the traditional color of Islamic purity, while her heart was filled with murderous intent.

She looked like an angel of light, but her soul had become something demonic.

Mother began the ceremony with traditional prayers asking Allah to bless our family and protect us from evil influences.

Her voice was strong and confident as she recited Quranic verses about the importance of maintaining pure faith and the dangers of corruption from foreign religions.

Father and my siblings joined in the responses, their voices echoing through our family quarters in perfect harmony, while I sat silent, knowing these might be the last prayers I would ever hear.

Then came the moment I had been dreading.

Mother lifted the largest crystal goblet filled with a dark red liquid that she explained was a special ceremonial drink made from pomegranate juice, honey, and traditional Arabian spices.

She said it was an ancient recipe used by our royal ancestors to seal important spiritual commitments and that each family member would drink from the same cup to symbolize our unity in faith.

She handed the goblet to father first, who drank deeply and praised the rich, complex flavor.

My brother and sister each took their turns, making faces at the bitter aftertaste, but dutifully finishing their portions.

Then mother’s eyes locked onto mine as she refilled the goblet with what I knew was a concentrated dose of whatever poison she had been perfecting for months.

As she extended the crystal cup toward me, her voice was steady and ceremonial, but her eyes burned with fanatic intensity.

She spoke about the importance of choosing between life and death, between blessing and curse, between faithfulness to Allah and corruption by foreign gods.

She said that this drink would seal my commitment to our family’s Islamic faith and wash away any confusion or doubt that had been troubling my heart.

I took the goblet from her hands, feeling its weight like a death sentence.

The liquid inside was darker than what the others had drunk with an oily sheen on the surface that caught the lamplight like liquid poison.

The smell was overwhelming.

A mixture of bitter almonds and something chemical that made my stomach turn before I even brought it to my lips.

This was the moment of ultimate decision.

I could refuse to drink and expose mother’s murderous plot in front of father and my siblings, creating a family crisis that would destroy us all.

Or I could drink the poison and trust that Jesus would either protect me supernaturally or receive my spirit into heaven if this was meant to be my martyrdom for faith in him.

In that suspended moment with the goblet halfway to my lips, I closed my eyes and prayed the most desperate prayer of my life.

Jesus, if you are real, I need you now.

I told him that I was placing my complete trust in his hands, that I would rather die believing in him than live denying him.

I asked him to be glorified in whatever was about to happen.

Whether through miraculous protection or through my faithful death, then I drank the entire contents of the goblet in three large swallows.

The poison hit my system like liquid fire.

Within seconds, my throat began to burn.

My vision blurred, and my heart started racing so fast, it felt like it would explode.

I could feel the concentrated toxins spreading through my bloodstream like molten metal, shutting down my organs one by one.

Father jumped up in alarm as I doubled over in agony, my body convulsing violently on the silk cushions.

Mother sat perfectly still, watching my death throws with cold satisfaction.

She made no move to help, no cry for medical assistance, no expression of maternal concern.

She simply observed her plan finally succeeding.

Her face, a mask of religious fanaticism that believed she was doing Allah’s will by murdering her own daughter for the crime of reading a Christian book.

My heart stopped beating.

I know this because I felt the exact moment when the electrical activity in my chest ceased.

When the poison finally accomplished what mother had been trying to achieve for months, my last sensation was a falling into absolute darkness, deeper and blacker than anything I had ever experienced.

But then in that darkness, light began to dawn.

Can you imagine seeing the living God with your own eyes? Nothing in human language can adequately describe what happened next.

But I will try to give you some glimpse of the glory that filled that room when Jesus Christ himself appeared in our family quarters.

The darkness that had been consuming me was suddenly replaced by light so brilliant it should have been blinding, but instead it was warm and gentle and infinitely welcoming.

I saw his nail scarred hands reach toward me and I felt life flowing back into my dead body like electricity through water.

The poison that had stopped my heart was neutralized instantly, not gradually, but completely as if it had never been in my system.

My vision cleared, my breathing normalized, and strength returned to my limbs in a way that defied every law of medicine and chemistry.

But it was not just my physical healing that amazed everyone in that room.

It was the unmistakable presence of divine power that filled our family quarters like tangible atmosphere.

Even father, my brother and my sister who knew nothing about Christianity immediately recognized that they were witnessing something supernatural beyond human explanation.

Mother’s face transformed from satisfaction to terror in the space of a heartbeat.

She had expected to watch me die, but instead she was watching the god she had rejected demonstrate his power over death itself.

She began backing away from the table, her white robes trembling, her eyes wide with fear that bordered on madness.

That was when the supernatural boldness hit me.

I sat up from where I had been dying moments before, looked directly at mother, and spoke words that came from somewhere beyond my own courage.

I told her that Jesus Christ had just saved my life, that her poison had no power over God’s plans for me, and that what she had meant for evil, God was using for good.

Then I turned to father and my siblings who were staring at me as if I had risen from the dead, which in a very real sense I had.

I told them that I was a follower of Jesus Christ, that I had been reading the Bible for months and that the God of Christians had just performed a miracle in our own home to prove his reality and power.

The atmosphere in that room was charged with supernatural presence so intense that no one could deny what they had witnessed.

This was not a medical recovery or a lucky survival.

This was divine intervention and everyone present knew it.

The same Jesus who had appeared in my palace room was here with us right now and his power was undeniable.

The immediate aftermath of my resurrection was unlike anything our palace had ever experienced.

Father dropped to his knees right there on the family room floor.

Not an Islamic prayer, but in stunned recognition that he had just witnessed the power of the living God.

My brother and sister clung to each other in wideeyed amazement.

Their young minds trying to process how their sister had died and come back to life before their eyes.

But it was mother’s reaction that revealed the true spiritual battle we had been fighting all along.

She began screaming with a voice I had never heard before.

A sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her throat.

She was not just angry or frightened.

She was in the grip of something that looked like demonic torment raging against the presence of Jesus that still filled our family quarters like thick atmosphere.

She clawed at her white robes, tore at her hair, and spoke words in Arabic that cursed the name of Christ with blasphemies that made even father recoil in shock.

Within hours, news of the miracle had spread throughout our palace, despite our family’s attempts to keep it private.

Servants who had witnessed my previous mysterious illnesses began putting pieces together.

Realizing that mother had been systematically poisoning me and that my survival had been supernatural, the kitchen staff discovered the bottles of concentrated poison hidden in mother’s private storage areas.

Evidence that would have convicted her of attempted murder in any court of law.

But more importantly, the spiritual impact of what had happened began rippling through our household in ways that transformed everything.

Maria, the Filipino maid who had first shown me the Bible, fell to her knees weeping when she heard what Jesus had done.

Other Christian servants who had been hiding their faith in terror for years, began openly sharing their testimonies, emboldened by the undeniable proof that Christ was more powerful than any earthly authority.

Father’s response was the most remarkable transformation of all.

This man who had spent his entire adult life navigating the complex political landscape of Saudi Islamic leadership was suddenly face to face with the reality that the Christian God possessed power beyond anything he had ever imagined.

That very night with tears streaming down his face.

He asked me to tell him everything I knew about Jesus Christ.

I spent the next three hours sharing the gospel with my father while mother was sedated under medical supervision in another wing of the palace.

I told him about Jesus calling himself the way, the truth, and the life.

About salvation through faith rather than works, about the love of God demonstrated through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.

Father listened with the intensity of a man whose entire worldview was being rebuilt from the foundation up.

By dawn on September 13th, my father had prayed to receive Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.

The powerful Saudi political figure who had spent decades advancing Islamic causes was born again as a Christian believer.

Baptized in our palace fountain by Maria, who had become our impromptu spiritual leader, my brother and sister, seeing the change in both father and me, began asking their own questions about this Jesus who could raise the dead.

Within a month, our entire immediate family had converted to Christianity, except for mother, who had been taken to a private psychiatric facility for treatment of what doctors diagnosed as a complete psychological breakdown.

The woman who had tried to kill me for reading the Bible was now under medical care, tormented by guilt and the memory of witnessing divine power that had shattered her fanatical worldview.

But God was not finished with our family’s transformation.

Father used his political connections to quietly establish an underground network of Christian believers throughout Saudi Arabia, providing safe houses and secret meeting places for converts who faced persecution from their own families and communities.

Our palace became the headquarters for a movement that spread the gospel through the highest levels of Saudi society.

I began discipling other young Saudi women who had encountered Jesus through dreams, visions, or secret Bible reading.

These brave women would arrive at our palace wearing traditional Islamic coverings, but underneath their conservative exterior burned the fire of authentic Christian faith.

We developed coded language systems and elaborate security protocols to protect their identities while nurturing their spiritual growth.

What would you do if God gave you this kind of platform? Here I was, a former Saudi princess who had been publicly raised from the dead by Jesus Christ with access to some of the most influential people in the Islamic world.

The responsibility was overwhelming, but the calling was undeniable.

I had been saved not just for my own benefit but to become a witness to God’s power in places where the gospel had never been freely shared.

The underground Christian network we established began reaching Saudi military officers, government administrators, wealthy businessmen, and even some members of the extended royal family.

Each conversion created ripple effects that spread through family networks and professional relationships, creating a hidden but growing community of believers who supported each other through persecution and danger.

Mother’s eventual recovery and reconciliation became another miracle that demonstrated God’s grace in our family.

After six months of psychiatric treatment, she began remembering the supernatural events of September 12th with clarity rather than denial.

The doctor said her recovery was unprecedented, that patients with her level of psychological trauma rarely regained full mental stability.

When she finally returned home, mother asked to speak with me privately for the first time since the poisoning incident.

She entered my room like a broken woman.

her former pride and fanaticism replaced by deep shame and genuine repentance.

She confessed that she had been consumed by religious hatred so intense that it had driven her to attempt murdering her own daughter five separate times.

Through tears that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, mother asked me to forgive her and to tell her about this Jesus who had been powerful enough to save me from her poison.

That conversation became her own salvation experience.

As the woman who had tried to kill me for being a Christian, surrendered her life to Christ and asked him to forgive her sins.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Can you imagine forgiving someone who had repeatedly tried to murder you? The supernatural love and forgiveness I felt for mother in that moment could only have come from Jesus himself.

The hatred and fear that should have destroyed our relationship was completely replaced by divine love that made genuine reconciliation possible.

Today, 3 years after my resurrection, our family serves Christ together in ways we never could have imagined.

Father has quietly resigned from his government position and now focuses full-time on ministry, using our family’s resources to support persecuted Christians throughout the Middle East.

Mother has become one of our most effective evangelists, sharing her testimony of transformation from attempted murderer to devoted follower of Christ.

My brother graduated from university and now manages our underground Christian network’s security operations, protecting convert families from persecution and helping them relocate safely when necessary.

My sister studies theology through secret correspondence courses and has become a gifted teacher of new believers, especially young women who face family opposition for their faith.

I’m asking you just as someone who has seen Jesus face to face, will you give him your life today? The same Jesus who appeared in my palace room and raised me from death is here with you right now calling your name, offering you the abundant life that can only be found in him.

He is not limited by your nationality, your background, your family, or your circumstances.

If a Saudi princess can follow Jesus, so can you.

If a woman who was poisoned five times by her own mother can forgive and be reconciled through Christ’s love, then there is no relationship in your life that cannot be healed by his power.

If a family that was torn apart by religious hatred can be united in Christian love, then there is no situation too hopeless for God’s intervention.

My name is Warda and I am a daughter of the King of Kings.

No persecution, no poison, no power on earth can separate us from Christ’s love.

The tomb could not hold him.

Death could not defeat him.

And nothing in your life is too difficult for him to transform.

Will you pray with me right now and ask Jesus to become the Lord of your life just as he became mine? The same God who saved me is waiting to save