My name is Grace, but I was born Princess Amir al-Rashid in the royal palaces of Riyad, Saudi Arabia.

I lived surrounded by luxury servants and the strict protocols of Islamic royalty until November 15th, 2010, when everything changed forever.

At 8 years old, I became a child bride to Shik Abdullah, a 45year-old man who was my father’s business partner.

I thought my life was completely over, that I would die in that desert compound as his property.

But that terrible day was actually when Jesus Christ began writing my real story of redemption and freedom.

I grew up behind the towering walls of our family palace in Riyad, where every day began before sunrise with the call to prayer echoing through marble corridors.

My world was one of unimaginable luxury, yet complete isolation from anything beyond those golden gates.

Servants attended to my every need.

Private tutors taught me Arabic literature and Islamic law, and my mother ensured I memorized entire chapters of the Quran by the time I was 6 years old.

My father, Prince Khaled al-Rashid, was a powerful government official whose word was, “Law not just in our household, but throughout our province.

He was a tall, imposing man who rarely smiled and expected absolute obedience from everyone around him, especially his women.

My mother moved through our home like a beautiful ghost.

Always perfectly dressed in designer abayas.

Always silent unless spoken to.

Always submissive to my father’s every command.

As a small child, I thought this was simply how the world worked.

I played with golden toys in rooms larger than most people’s homes, ate meals prepared by worldclass chefs, and wore custommade dresses that cost more than cars.

But even surrounded by all this wealth, I felt something was missing.

The palace felt more like a prison decorated with silk and jewels.

Every morning I would kneel beside my mother for fajger prayers, then spend hours with religious tutors who taught me that my highest purpose in life was to honor my family through complete submission.

They told me that Allah had predetermined every aspect of my future and that questioning his will was the gravest sin a Muslim girl could commit.

I learned to recite prayers in Arabic that I barely understood, to keep my eyes downcast when men entered the room, and to dream small dreams that would never conflict with my family’s plans.

But nothing could have prepared me for the morning when everything shattered.

I was 7 years old, playing with my collection of international dolls in the sun room, when my father summoned me to his study.

This was unusual because he rarely acknowledged my existence directly.

I remember smoothing down my pink dress and checking that my hijab was properly arranged before knocking on his heavy wooden door.

When I entered, my father didn’t look up from the documents spread across his mahogany desk.

His voice was cold and businesslike when he spoke.

Amira, you are to be married to Sheikh Abdullah bin Rashad al-Maktum.

The ceremony will take place in 6 months on your 8th birthday.

This union will strengthen our family’s position and honor our tribal alliances.

I stood there in complete shock, not understanding what those words meant.

Marriage was something that happened to grown women, not to little girls who still needed help braiding their hair.

I thought perhaps my father was speaking about some distant future, maybe when I turned 18 or 20.

But Baba, I whispered, using the childhood name for father that usually made him soften toward me.

I don’t understand.

I’m still learning to read properly.

I still play with dolls.

His eyes finally lifted from his papers, and I saw no warmth there at all.

You will learn what you need to know.

Shik Abdullah is 45 years old, a respected leader and a valuable ally.

This marriage has been arranged to benefit both our families.

There will be no discussion.

Can you imagine being 7 years old and having the adults around you calmly plan the end of your childhood as if they were discussing dinner arrangements? I felt like I was drowning in deep water with no one willing to throw me a rope.

I ran to my mother’s chambers, tears streaming down my face, certain that she would protect me from this madness.

I found her sitting at her vanity, applying expensive perfumes with hands that trembled slightly.

When I threw myself into her arms and sobbed out what my father had told me, she held me tightly but said nothing for a long time.

Finally, she pulled back and looked into my eyes with a sadness I had never seen before.

My darling Amira, she whispered this.

This is our way.

This is what Allah has planned for you.

I was your age when I was promised to your father.

We must trust that this is best.

But I could see the tears she was fighting to hold back.

And I knew in my heart that she didn’t believe her own words.

The next 6 months passed like a nightmare.

I couldn’t wake up from wedding planners filled our home, discussing flowers and feast menus while I sat in corners, forgotten and terrified.

Seamstresses fitted me for elaborate wing dresses that hung on my small frame like costumes for a play I never auditioned for.

Traditional women came to teach me about wely duties using euphemisms I was too young to understand but that filled me with dread.

Shik Abdullah visited our palace twice during this time.

He was a large man with cold eyes and rough hands who spoke about me as if I were a piece of furniture he was considering purchasing.

He never addressed me directly, only discussed my potential with my father while I stood silent and small beside them.

During those dark months, I began asking Allah why this was happening to me.

I performed my prayers faithfully, but for the first time in my young life, heaven felt empty and distant.

The god I had been taught to worship seemed either powerless to help me or unwilling to care about the terror of one small girl.

I was still sleeping with my favorite teddy bear when they began planning my wedding night.

The morning of my 8th birthday arrived with the sound of hundreds of workers transforming our palace into a wedding venue.

I woke to the noise of men hanging elaborate decorations in the courtyard below my window.

And for a moment, I forgot what day it was.

Then reality crashed over me like ice water, and I began shaking so violently that I couldn’t get out of bed.

My mother entered my room with a team of women whose job was to transform me into a bride.

They had brought traditional henna artists, makeup specialists, and hair stylists, all chattering excitedly about the beautiful little bride, while I sat frozen in terror.

The henna artist painted intricate designs on my tiny hands and feet, the dark paste cold against my skin like chains being painted on my body.

The wedding dress they brought was a masterpiece of gold thread and precious stones that weighed almost as much as I did.

It was designed for a woman’s body, not a child’s, and they had to use safety pins hidden beneath layers of fabric to make it fit my small frame.

When they placed the heavy traditional headdress on my head, I could barely hold it up.

I looked in the mirror and saw a little girl playing dressed up in her mother’s clothes.

Except this was no game.

As they applied makeup to my face, trying to make an 8-year-old look mature, I kept thinking that surely someone would realize this was all a terrible mistake.

Surely someone would look at me, see how young and scared I was, and call everything off.

But the women around me only couped about how lucky I was to marry such an important man.

How this would secure my family’s honor.

How Allah had blessed me with such a good match.

The ceremony itself felt like an outof body experience.

I was led into our palace’s grand ballroom where hundreds of guests had gathered, all adults, all celebrating something I couldn’t understand.

The men sat on one side, the women on the other.

As is traditional, Shik Abdullah sat at the front wearing elaborate robes, looking pleased with himself, as if he had just purchased a prized horse.

I was seated on a throne-like chair beside him.

But I felt like I was watching everything happen to someone else.

People took photos of us together.

this middle-aged man and a child who barely reached his shoulder even while sitting.

My father gave speeches about honor and tradition while my mother wept quietly in the women’s section, her tears hidden behind her knee.

During the ceremony, I kept looking around the room hoping to catch some someone’s eye who might see how wrong this all was.

But every adult face looked back at me with approval and celebration.

Have you ever felt completely alone in a room full of people? That’s what it was like sitting there in my golden prison of address surrounded by hundreds of people who were celebrating what felt like my funeral.

The religious leader performing the ceremony asked if I consented to this marriage.

I was so terrified and confused that I could barely whisper yes.

Not because I wanted to, but because I had been trained my entire life never to disobey adults, especially in religious matters.

That whispered yes haunts me to this day.

Even though I know now that no 8-year-old can truly consent to marriage.

When the ceremony ended, I was loaded into Shik Abdullah’s car to be driven to his compound three hours away in the desert.

As we drove away from the only home I had ever known, I pressed my face against the window, watching my mother’s figure grow smaller and smaller until she disappeared entirely.

I would not see her again for 7 years.

She Abdullah’s compound was nothing like my family’s palace.

It was isolated, surrounded by high walls and guard posts, more like a fortress than a home.

Inside, I met his other three wives, women who looked at me with a mixture of pity and resentment.

I was the youngest, but because of my royal blood, I was given a status that the older wives resented.

This created immediate tension in a household where I desperately needed allies.

My new bedroom was actually a small apartment within the larger compound decorated in red and gold fabrics that felt suffocating rather than luxurious.

That first night when Shik Abdullah explained what was expected of me as his wife, I finally understood why my mother had been crying.

The innocence of childhood was ripped away in moments that I will not describe in detail, but that left me feeling broken and dirty in ways I had no words for at age 8.

The worst part was not just the physical trauma, but the complete loss of everything that had made me feel human.

I was no longer allowed to laugh loudly, to run, to play with toys, or to ask questions.

I was expected to be available whenever Shik Abdullah Shu wanted my attention to serve his meals, to massage his feet, to listen to his complaints about business and politics as if I were an adult companion rather than a child who should have been learning multiplication tables.

My education stopped completely.

Wives don’t need to read beyond the Quran.

She shik Abdullah told me when I asked about continuing my studies.

Your job is to serve your husband and bear children, not to fill your head with unnecessary knowledge.

The dreams I had once harbored of becoming a doctor or teacher were dismissed as childish fantasies that I needed to outgrow immediately.

Sleep became my only escape.

But even that was limited.

I was expected to wake before dawn for prayers, then spend the day managing household tasks I was too young to understand properly.

The other wives, rather than protecting me, often criticized my mistakes harshly, competing to win favor with our shared husband by pointing out my failures.

Within months, my body began showing signs of severe stress.

I lost weight rapidly, developed chronic stomach aches, and began pulling out my own hair during moments of anxiety.

But when I complained of feeling sick, I was told that this was normal for new wives, that I would adjust if I just tried harder to be obedient.

The most crushing realization was that no one was coming to save me.

This wasn’t a temporary nightmare that adults would eventually fix.

This was my life now.

And everyone around me acted as if it was not only normal but blessed by God himself.

I began to pray desperately to Allah, begging him to help me understand why he would want a little girl to suffer like this.

But my prayers seemed to bounce off empty air.

Have you ever felt completely abandoned by everyone you thought loved you, including God? By the time I turned 11, I had stopped speaking unless directly asked a question.

3 years of living as Shik Abdullah’s child bride had drained every ounce of joy and hope from my soul.

I moved through each day like a ghost, performing my duties mechanically while my spirit withered away inside.

The palace guards had nicknamed me the silent princess because I had become a shadow of the lively child I once was.

That’s when Maria Santos entered my life like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Shik Abdullah had hired her as a replacement for one of the kitchen servants who had quit suddenly.

Maria was a small Filipino woman in her 40s with kind eyes and calloused hands that spoke of years of hard work.

What struck me immediately was how different she seemed from the other servants.

While they moved through the compound with heads down and shoulders hunched, Maria carried herself with a quiet dignity that I couldn’t understand.

Even more puzzling, she hummed softly while she worked, as if she had some secret source of joy that sustained her despite her circumstances for weeks.

I watched her from a distance as she went about her duties.

She cleaned with unusual care, treating even the humblest task as if they mattered.

when she served meals, she looked people in the eye and smiled genuinely, something that made Shik Abdullah uncomfortable, but that he tolerated because her work was a flawless.

Most remarkably, she seemed completely unafraid of him, showing respect without the cowering fear that characterized everyone else in the household.

The first time Maria spoke directly to me was on a particularly difficult day when I had been punished for dropping an expensive vase.

Shik Abdullah had struck me across the face and sent me to my room without food, screaming that I was clumsy and worthless.

I was sitting on my bedroom floor holding my burning cheek and trying not to cry.

to when I heard a soft knock on my door.

Maria entered carrying a tray with tea and small sandwiches.

I thought you might be hungry, shown as she said in her gentle accented Arabic.

She set the tray down and knelt beside me, her eyes full of concern as she examined my bruised face.

Oh little one, she whispered, this should not be happening to you.

Those words hit me like lightning.

In three years of abuse, no adult had ever acknowledged that what was happening to me was wrong.

Everyone had always told me that I needed to be more obedient, more grateful, more accepting of Allah’s plan for my life.

But here was Maria saying the words I had been desperate to hear.

This should not be happening.

I began crying then, not the silent tears I had learned to shed, but deep wrenching sobs that came from the very depths of my broken heart.

Maria held me while I cried, stroke in my hair and whispering soothing words in a mixture of Arabic, and what I later learned was Tagalog.

She didn’t try to stop my tears or tell me to be strong.

She just let me grieve.

When I finally calmed down, Maria looked at me with such tenderness that I felt something I hadn’t experienced in years.

The sense that someone actually cared about my pain.

“Tell me,” she said quietly.

“Do you know about Jesus?” I was shocked by the question.

“Jesus is a prophet,” I recited automatically, giving the standard Islamic teaching.

“But Muhammad is the final messenger of Allah.

” Maria nodded thoughtfully.

Yes, I know that’s what you’ve been taught.

But what if I told you that Jesus loves children so much that he said anyone who hurts them would be better off thrown into the sea with a heavy stone around their neck? I stared at her in amazement.

No religious teacher had ever told me that any god cared specifically about protecting children.

In my experience, Allah demanded that children submit to adult authority, no matter how painful or wrong it felt.

Over the following weeks, Maria began sharing stories about Jesus during the brief moments when we could speak privately.

She told me about how he welcomed children when his disciples tried to send them away, saying, “Let the little children come to me, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

” She described how Jesus healed sick people, fed hungry crowds, and stood up for those who were powerless and oppressed.

These conversations had to happen in secret, usually while Maria was cleaning my room or when we passed each other in corridors.

The penalty for a Muslim converting to Christianity in Saudi Arabia was death, and the punishment for encouraging such conversion was equally severe.

But Maria seemed willing to risk everything to plant seeds of hope in my devastated heart.

One evening, about 2 months after our first conversation, Maria slipped a small object into my hand while serving dinner.

It felt like a tiny book wrapped in cloth.

“Read this when you’re alone,” she whispered.

“Hide it well.

” Back in my room, I unwrapped the cloth to discover a small Arabic New Testament, no bigger than my palm.

The pages were tissue thin, and the print was tiny, clearly designed to be easily concealed.

I had never held a Bible before.

In our household, the only religious book allowed was the Quran.

That night, I read the Gospel of Matthew by candle light in my bathroom, the only place I felt safe from discovery.

When I reached chapter 19, verse 14, I had to read it several times because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

” I sat on that cold bathroom floor and wept again.

But these were different tears.

For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of something I had almost forgotten existed.

Hope.

Here was a God who didn’t just tolerate children or see them as property to be managed, but who actively welcomed them, who claimed they belong to his kingdom, who wanted them to come to him freely.

Ask yourself this question.

When did someone first show you what real love looked like? For me, it was Maria risking her own life to tell a broken child that she was precious to God.

Over the following months, I devoured that tiny Bible, memorizing entire chapters and hiding the book in different locations around my room.

Each page revealed more about this Jesus who seemed so different from the Allah I had been taught to fear.

This God had compassion for the suffering, justice for the oppressed, and special love for children.

But even as hope began growing in my heart, my circumstances remained unchanged.

And I began to wonder if this Jesus I was reading about had the power to reach into a guarded compound in the Saudi desert to rescue one forgotten child bride.

As I continued secretly reading the New Testament over the next 2 years, something extraordinary began happening that I can only describe as supernatural encounters with the living God.

The first occurred when I was 13 during one of Sheik Abdullah’s worst violent episodes.

He had been drinking heavily, which was hypocritical given his public stance as a devout Muslim and had flown into a rage over some minor business setback.

I had the misfortune of bringing him his evening meal.

Just as his anger peaked, he grabbed me by the hair and began screaming that everything wrong in his life was somehow my fault, that I was a curse rather than a blessing, that he should have married a woman instead of being stuck with a useless child.

As his grip tightened and I saw the familiar look in his eyes that meant serious violence was coming, I closed my eyes and whispered a desperate prayer to Jesus.

Please help me.

At that exact moment, one of his business partners arrived unexpectedly at the compound, requiring Shik Abdullah’s immediate attention.

He released me so suddenly that I fell to the floor, but his rage was instantly redirected toward dealing with this urgent business matter.

This might sound like coincidence to you, but it was the first of many times that I experienced what I can only call divine intervention at the precise moment I needed it most.

As I lay on the floor, watching Shik Abdullah hurry away to meet his visitor.

I felt a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the desert heat.

Someone was watching over me, someone was listening to my prayers, and that someone had the power to change my circumstances in an instant.

The dream started shortly after this incident.

Unlike ordinary dreams that fade quickly upon waking, these visions remained crystal clear in my memory for days and weeks afterward.

In the first dream, I found myself walking through a beautiful garden unlike anything I had ever seen.

The colors were more vivid than real life, and there was a quality of light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

A figure approached me through the garden, and though I had never seen a picture of Jesus, I knew instantly who he was.

He was neither the pale European Jesus of Western paintings, nor did he look exactly like the Arab men I knew.

Instead, he radiated a presence that was both completely masculine and utterly safe, both powerfully divine and tenderly human.

His eyes held depths of love that I had never experienced from any earthly person.

Amira, he said, and his voice was like music that reached straight into my soul.

I have seen every tear you have cried.

I have felt every blow you have received.

None of your suffering has been hidden from me.

I wanted to run to him, but I felt unworthy, dirty from everything that had been done to me.

As if reading my thoughts, Jesus smiled with such warmth that I felt clean for the first time in years.

You are not damaged goods, he said firmly.

You are my precious daughter, fearfully and wonderfully made, chosen before the foundation of the world.

What others have done to you does not define who you are.

I woke from that dream with tears streaming down my face, but they were tears of relief rather than sorrow.

For the first time since my childhood had been stolen from me, I felt like I had worth as a human being.

Over the next months, these divine encounters became more frequent and more specific.

Jesus began preparing me for something I couldn’t yet understand.

Teaching me through dreams and visions about his plan for my life.

In one vision, I saw myself speaking to crowds of people about God’s love for children.

In another, I was working alongside other women to rescue girls from situations like mine.

These dreams seemed impossible given my current circumstances, but they filled me with a sense of destiny and purpose that sustained me through the darkest days.

Maria noticed the change in me immediately.

You’re different, she observed one day while helping me fold laundry.

There’s light in your eyes again.

When I told her about my dreams and the growing sense that Jesus was preparing me for something, she gripped my hands tightly and her own eyes filled with tears.

“I have been praying for this moment since the day I met you,” she whispered.

“God has been working even when we couldn’t see it.

” She She then shared something that changed everything.

She was connected to an underground network of Christians who helped people escape religious persecution.

If God is calling you out of this place, she said, there are people who will help you when the time comes.

The idea of escape had never seemed possible before.

Shik Abdullah’s compound was like a fortress surrounded by high walls, electronic gates, and armed guards.

His wealth and connections meant that he had resources to track down anyone who crossed him.

But as Maria began cautiously sharing details about this underground network, I started to believe that maybe my dreams of freedom weren’t just wishful thinking.

We began planning carefully over many months.

Maria taught me practical skills I would need to survive outside the compound, how to use public transportation, how to manage money, basic self selfdefense techniques.

More importantly, she continued my Christian education, helping me understand not just what I believed, but why I believed it and how to live according to those beliefs.

By the time I turned 15, Shik Abdullah had become increasingly violent and unpredictable.

His business was struggling.

His other wives were aging, and he was putting more and more pressure on me to produce children.

His threats became more specific and terrifying.

“If you don’t give me a son soon,” he told me one night, “I’ll find other uses for you that will make you wish you had.

” That was when I knew my time was running out.

Either I would escape soon or I would likely die in that compound.

The night we chose for my escape was during Ramadan when the household rhythms were disrupted by fasting and late night prayers Maria had coordinated with her contacts to have transportation waiting at a specific location outside the compound walls.

The plan required me to slip out during the pre-dawn prayer time when the guards would be distracted by their religious obligations.

I spent the week before my planned escape in intensive prayer and fasting.

Not for Ramadan, but in preparation for what I knew would be the most dangerous night of my life.

I memorized key Bible verses to sustain me, gathered my few precious possessions, and prepared mentally for the reality that I might never see my family again.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Do you believe God still performs miracles for those who desperately need them? Because what happened on the night of my escape could only be explained as the direct intervention of a god who hears the cries of the oppressed and has the power to make a way where there is no way.

The miraculous events of that night would either set me free or result in my death.

And as I lay in bed listening to the pre-dawn call to prayer beginning, I whispered one final prayer.

Jesus, I trust you completely with my life.

The night of my escape, March 15th, 2013, began with what could only be described as a series of divine interventions that defied all logical explanation.

At exactly 3:47 a.

m.

, as I lay in my bed, listening to the pre-dawn call to prayer, echoing across the compound, my heart was pounding so loudly I was certain someone would hear it through the walls.

Maria had slipped me a note earlier that evening confirming that everything was in place.

The underground Christian network had positioned a vehicle exactly one mile north of the compound hidden behind an an abandoned gas station.

All I had to do was somehow get past the electronic gates, the motion sensors, the guard dogs, and the three armed security personnel who monitored the perimeter 24 hours a day.

As I sat up in bed, clutching my small bag containing the hidden Bible, a few pieces of jewelry I could sell, and a photograph of my mother, I whispered one final prayer.

Jesus, if this is really your will, I need you to make the impossible happen.

What occurred next still gives me chills when I remember it.

At exactly 4:15 a.

m.

, Shik Abdullah’s head of security received an urgent phone call.

I could hear shouting from the guard station as he roused the other two guards.

Apparently, there had been a massive car accident on the main highway involving one of Shik Abdullah’s business partners, and all three security guards were needed immediately to handle the situation and coordinate with police.

This had never happened before.

In the 7 years I had lived at the compound, the security protocols explicitly stated that at least one guard must remain on duty at all times.

But the emergency was so urgent and the head of security so flustered that this basic rule was overlooked in the chaos of the moment.

As I watched from my bedroom window, all three guards piled into their vehicle and sped away into the desert darkness.

For the first time in 7 years, the compound was completely unguarded.

But there was still the matter of the electronic gates and motion sensors.

These systems were controlled from the main house and required Shik Abdullah’s personal access code to disable.

As I crept through the corridors towards the exit, my bare feet silent on the marble floors, I was praying desperately that somehow this final obstacle would be removed.

When I reached the main gate, I nearly collapsed in amazement.

The massive iron gates, which were never left open, stood wide apart.

Later investigation would reveal that a power surge during a lightning storm earlier that evening had caused a malfunction in the electronic system, causing the gates to default to an open position.

The backup generators that should have maintained the security systems had also mysteriously failed.

I ran through those open gates, feeling like the Israelites crossing the Red Sea while God held back the waters.

Every step away from the compound felt like a step toward resurrection from the grave.

The milelong journey through the desert to the meeting point was the longest walk of my life.

I had no flashlight and the moon was hidden behind clouds, leaving me to navigate by memory and prayer.

My feet soft from years of palace living were soon bleeding from the rough terrain, but adrenaline kept me moving forward.

When I finally reached the abandoned gas station, a small white car was waiting exactly where Maria had promised.

The driver was a middle-aged Palestinian Christian named Khalil who worked with the underground network.

Praise God, he whispered as I collapsed into the passenger seat.

We have been praying for you all night.

What followed were 2 years of living as a fugitive, moving from safe house to safe house across Jordan, Lebanon, and eventually Turkey.

The underground Christian network that sheltered me was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

These were people from all walks of life who risked their own safety to protect religious refugees like me.

They included former Muslims who had converted to Christianity.

lifelong Christians whose families had lived in the Middle East for generations and western missionaries who had dedicated their lives to helping the persecuted church.

Each safe house taught me something new about surviving in the world outside palace walls.

In Jordan, an elderly Christian couple taught me how to use public transportation and manage money.

In Lebanon, a group of female former refugees taught me basic job skills and how to defend myself physically.

In Turkey, a retired pastor and his wife helped me process the trauma of my childhood through biblical counseling while also teaching me to read and write properly for the first time since I was 8 years old.

The identity crisis during this period was overwhelming.

I was no longer Princess Amira, the royal daughter of wealth and privilege.

I was no longer a Muslim, connected to the only religious community I had ever known.

But I wasn’t yet sure who I was becoming.

Some days I felt free for the first time in my life.

Other days I felt completely lost, like a person without a country, family, or clear identity.

The nightmares were constant during this time.

I would wake up screaming, convinced that Sheik Abdullah had found me and was dragging me back to the compound.

The kind people who sheltered me would sit with me during these episodes, praying over me, and reminding me that I was safe, that God had brought me too far to abandon me.

Now, learning to make even basic decisions for myself was surprisingly difficult.

For 7 years, every aspect of my life had been controlled by Shik Abdullah.

What to wear, when to eat, how to spend my time, even when to speak had all been determined by someone else.

Suddenly, having the freedom to choose felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

On my 17th birthday, March the 15th, 2015, exactly two years after my escape, I made the decision that would change everything forever.

Standing on a beach in Turkey, surrounded by the Christian family who had become my refuge.

I asked to be baptized.

As I went under the water and came up again, I felt like I was being born for the second time.

The scared, broken little girl who had been sold as a child bride was buried in those waves when I emerged.

I was Grace, a daughter of the living God with a purpose and destiny that no human being could steal from me.

I chose the name Grace because it represented everything my new life in Christ meant.

Undeserved favor, unearned love, unmmerited redemption.

I was no longer defined by what had been done to me, but by what God had done for me.

That night, as I sat looking at the stars over the Mediterranean Sea, I knew that my real life was just beginning.

Here I am today, November 15th, 2018, 23 years old, and living a life I could never have imagined during those dark years in the compound.

I am speaking to you from my small apartment in a western country where I live under a protected identity but where I am truly free for the first time in my life.

The transformation from Princess Amira, the terrified child bride to Grace, a woman with purpose and hope has been nothing short of miraculous.

My daily life now is filled with work that gives my suffering meaning.

I spend my mornings working with International Justice Mission and other organizations that fight human trafficking and child marriage around the world.

The statistics are staggering and heartbreaking.

Every year, 12 million girls under 18 are forced into marriage, many of them younger than I was.

But behind each number is a real child with dreams and fears just like I had when I share my testimony at conferences and churches we might wait.

I often see the same look of shock and disbelief in people’s eyes.

How could such things happen in the modern world? How could entire families and communities participate in destroying a child’s life? But I also see something else in their faces.

a growing determination to do something about it.

That’s why I keep speaking even when it’s painful to to relive these memories.

Even when I receive death threats from people who say I’m dishonoring my family and religion.

3 years ago, I met David, the man who is now my husband.

is a social worker who specializes in trauma recovery and he was volunteering with one of the organizations where I work.

When I first told him my story, I braced myself for the pity or discomfort I had grown accustomed to seeing in men’s faces.

Instead, I saw something I had never experienced before.

Righteous anger on my behalf and a deep respect for the strength it had taken to survive and rebuild.

David has taught me what a godly marriage actually looks like.

He asks for my opinions and values, my thoughts.

He serves me instead of demanding to be served.

He protects my emotional and physical well-being instead of exploiting my vulnerabilities.

When I have nightmares or panic attacks related to my past trauma, he holds me and prays with me instead of making it about his own frustration or needs.

This is what God intended marriage to be.

Two people serving each other in love.

Not one person owning another like property.

Our wedding day last year was everything.

My childhood wedding was not.

I was 22 years old, fully mature, and genuinely choosing to commit my life to someone who loved and honored me.

I wore a simple white dress that I had picked out myself.

And I walked down the aisle with joy instead of terror.

When the pastor asked if I took David to be my husband, my yes came from a heart full of love instead of a mind paralyzed by fear.

But my new life hasn’t been without challenges.

The trauma of my childhood doesn’t just disappear because I’m now safe and loved.

I still struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder that manifests in unexpected ways.

Loud noises can trigger flashbacks to shake Abdullah’s violent rages.

Being in crowded spaces sometimes makes me feel trapped and panicked.

There are still nights when I wake up convinced I’m back in in the compound.

And it takes several minutes for David to help me remember where I really am.

The survivor guilt is perhaps the hardest burden I carry.

While I was blessed with escape and recovery, thousands of other girls remain trapped in situations similar to what I experienced.

Every day that I live in freedom, I’m aware that somewhere in the world, an 8-year-old girl is experiencing her first night as a child bride.

This knowledge both motivates my work and breaks my heart repeatedly.

My relationship with my birth family remains completely severed.

According to Islamic law and Saudi culture, I have brought unbearable shame on the family name by converting to Christianity and speaking publicly about my experiences.

My father has officially disowned me and there are credible threats against my life if I ever return to Saudi Arabia.

I will probably never see my mother or siblings again in this lifetime.

And that loss creates a grief that even my deep faith cannot entirely heal.

Sometimes people ask me if I ever regret my decision to escape and convert to Christianity given everything I’ve lost.

The answer is absolutely not.

But not because the cost hasn’t been real and painful.

I don’t regret it because I’ve learned that some things are more valuable than family approval or cultural acceptance.

Freedom is more valuable than comfort.

Truth is more valuable than tradition.

God’s love is more valuable than human approval.

The work I do now gives profound meaning to everything I suffered.

In the past 2 years alone, I’ve been directly involved in rescuing 53 child brides and connecting them with resources for recovery and education.

I have testified before government committees working on legislation to strengthen laws against child marriage.

I have trained law enforcement officers to recognize and respond appropriately to human trafficking cases.

I have spoken at universities, churches, and conferences raising awareness about issues that many people prefer to ignore.

But perhaps the most rewarding aspect of my current life is the individual counseling I do with other survivors.

When a 16-year-old girl who escaped forced marriage tells me that my story gave her hope to keep fighting for healing when a woman in her 30s finally finds the courage to report her childhood abuse after hearing my testimony.

When a young man realizes that his little sister is in danger and takes action to protect her, I know that God has used my pain for his purposes.

I want to speak directly to anyone listening who might be trapped in their own nightmare right now.

Maybe you’re not a child bride, but perhaps you’re in an abusive relationship or trapped by addiction or held captive by fear or shame from your past.

I’m asking you as someone who escaped the impossible, what situation in your life needs God’s supernatural intervention? The same Jesus who orchestrated my miraculous escape from a guarded compound in the Saudi desert is still in the business of setting captives free.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Is there a child in your community who needs protection? Is there a woman in your church or workplace who shows signs of abuse? Is there a cause related to justice and freedom that God is calling you to support? Don’t let my story be just entertainment.

Let it move you to action.

Because there are millions of people around the world who are still waiting for their own rescue.

I was once Princess Amira living in a palace that was actually a prison, married to a man who saw me as property rather than a human being.

Now I am Grace, a daughter of the King of Kings, married to a man who reflects God’s love, working to set other captives free.

Jesus didn’t just save my soul when I was 15 years old.

He saved my life, restored my dignity, gave me purpose, and surrounded me with a family of believers who loved me unconditionally.

If he can reach a terrified 8-year-old in a Saudi compound and transform her into a woman of purpose and joy, he can reach anyone, anywhere, in any situation.

That’s the miracle of grace.

And that’s why I will never stop telling this story as long as I have breath in my lungs.

To God be the glory for the things he has done and for the captives he continues to set