My name is Zubar.

I am 45 years old, a Saudi prince born into wealth and power.

On September 15th, 2017, I committed the unthinkable.

I cursed Jesus Christ in my rage.

What happened next changed everything I believed about God, faith, and salvation forever.

I was born into the house of Saud, third in line of succession to one of the most powerful thrones in the Middle East.

My childhood was spent within the marble halls of our family palace in Riyad, where golden chandeliers cast shadows on walls adorned with verses from the Holy Quran.

From the moment I could speak, I was taught that Islam was not merely a religion, but the very foundation of our kingdom, our culture, and our divine right to rule.

My father, the king’s brother, made certain that my Islamic education was flawless.

private tutors.

The most respected Islamic scholars in the kingdom would arrive each morning to teach me the Quran, Hadith, and Sharia law.

I memorized verses in Arabic before I learned to read English.

The call to prayer was the rhythm of my life.

five times daily without exception.

I was taught that we Saudis were the guardians of the two holiest sites in Islam, Mecca and Medina, and that this responsibility made our faith purer, stronger, and more authentic than any other Muslim nation.

When I reached adulthood, my role in the kingdom expanded beyond religious duties.

I was appointed to oversee several divisions within the oil ministry, managing billions of dollars in revenue that flowed through our pipelines to the west.

This position brought me into regular contact with American and European business partners, many of whom were Christians.

I found their beliefs fascinating in an academic sense, but ultimately misguided.

During business dinners in Riyad’s finest hotels, I would listen politely as these Western executives spoke about their churches, their Bible studies, their Christian holidays.

I remember thinking how unfortunate it was that these intelligent, successful people had been led astray by corrupted scriptures.

The Quran teaches us that Christians and Jews are people of the book, but that their texts had been altered over centuries, losing the original message that Allah had sent through Jesus, who was merely a prophet, not the son of God.

My marriage was arranged to my second cousin, a beautiful and devout woman from another branch of the royal family.

Our union was blessed not only by Allah, but by political wisdom.

strengthening alliances within the house of Saud.

But the greatest blessing came three years later when our daughter was born.

From the moment I held her tiny form wrapped in silk and gold thread, I knew that she was my heart walking outside my body.

My daughter was extraordinary.

By age five, she could recite entire chapters of the Quran from memory.

Her voice, sweet and clear, would fill our private mosque during family prayers.

I would watch her during our daily devotions, her small hands pressed together, her eyes closed in perfect concentration, and feel overwhelming pride.

She was not just my daughter, but my legacy, my proof that the next generation of Saudi royalty would be even more devoted to Allah than my own.

We spent hours together in my private study, a room lined with religious texts and political treatises.

I would teach her about our family’s responsibility as guardians of Islam’s holiest sites.

She would ask thoughtful questions about the Hajj, about why Muslims from around the world look to Saudi Arabia for spiritual guidance.

Her intelligence amazed me.

At age eight, she could explain complex theological concepts that many adults struggled to understand.

But it was during these same business dealings that my irritation with Christianity began to grow.

Western missionaries, though officially banned from our kingdom, seemed to find ways to infiltrate our society.

I would hear reports of Christian literature being smuggled across our borders, of secret house churches meeting in expatriate compounds.

The very idea that these foreigners would try to corrupt the spiritual heart of Islam filled me with righteous anger.

I remember one particularly frustrating evening in 2016 when an American oil executive, a man I had worked with for nearly 5 years, began speaking more boldly about his faith.

We were reviewing pipeline contracts in my office when he mentioned that his church back in Texas was praying for peace in the Middle East and for God’s blessing on Saudi Arabia.

The presumption astounded me.

How dare he suggest that his God, this Jesus whom Christians had elevated to divine status, had any authority over the birthplace of Islam? Ask yourself this question.

How would you feel if someone suggested that your most sacred beliefs were incomplete, that you needed their foreign god to make your faith complete? That is exactly how these conversations felt to me.

I was polite, diplomatic, but internally I seethed at the arrogance of these Christians who seemed to believe that their crucified prophet could somehow improve upon the perfect revelation that Allah had given through Muhammad.

My daughter and I would often discuss these encounters during our evening walks through the palace gardens.

She would listen with the serious attention that only children possess.

As I explained how important it was to protect our Islamic faith from foreign influences, I taught her that while we must respect Christians as people of the book, we must never forget that Islam represented the final perfect revelation from Allah.

She would nod solemnly, her dark eyes reflecting the wisdom that seemed far beyond her years.

I was proud, perhaps too proud, of my position as both a prince and a guardian of Islamic purity.

My faith was not just personal, it was political, cultural, the very essence of my identity.

I represented 15 centuries of Islamic tradition, the lineage of kings who had protected Mecca and Medina from crusaders and colonizers alike.

My daughter would inherit this responsibility and I was determined to prepare her for that sacred duty.

I thought I had everything.

Wealth that could buy kingdoms, power that could influence nations, and most importantly, the blessing of Allah upon my family.

I was about to learn that none of that mattered when my world came crashing down.

September 13th, 2017 began like any other Wednesday in our household.

My daughter, now 10 years old, woke before dawn for morning prayers, her voice joining mine in reciting the fudger.

She was excited about a school trip that day to the ancient ruins of Dirya, the original home of the Saudi royal family.

As she kissed my cheek goodbye, her backpack filled with notebooks and water bottles, I remember thinking how perfectly this educational journey represented our family’s commitment to preserving Saudi heritage.

The call came at 2:47 in the afternoon.

I was reviewing oil production reports when my assistant burst into my office without knocking, something that had never happened in 15 years of working together.

His face was ashen as he handed me his phone.

The voice on the other end belonged to the principal of my daughter’s private academy, and her words shattered my world in seconds.

Your highness, there has been an accident.

The school bus carrying your daughter and her classmates was caught in a sudden sandstorm on the highway returning from Dera.

The bus overturned.

Your daughter has been critically injured and is being transported by helicopter to King Fil Specialist Hospital.

Please come immediately.

I have lived through political coups, economic crises, and family scandals.

But nothing had prepared me for the terror that seized my heart at that moment.

My hands shook as I called for my driver, my mind racing through prayers to Allah while my body moved on autopilot toward the hospital.

During that endless 20inut drive through Riyad traffic, I bargained with God in ways I had never done before.

Take my wealth, take my position, take my life, but please spare my daughter.

King Fisel Specialist Hospital is where Saudi royalty receives medical care equipped with the most advanced technology that oil money can buy.

But when I arrived at the trauma unit, all that technology seemed helpless against what I saw.

My daughter lay unconscious on a hospital bed.

Her small body connected to machines that beeped and hummed with mechanical precision.

Her head was wrapped in white bandages, and her face, usually bright with laughter, was swollen and still.

The lead neurosurgeon, a German specialist we had flown in years ago specifically for the royal family, pulled me aside with grim professionalism.

The impact had caused severe head trauma and massive internal bleeding.

Her brain was swelling dangerously, and despite their best efforts, she was not responding to treatment.

They had already performed emergency surgery to relieve pressure on her brain, but the next 48 hours would determine whether she would survive, and if she did, whether she would ever be the same brilliant child I knew.

My wife arrived within the hour, her face stre with tears, but her lips moving in constant prayer.

We took turns sitting beside our daughter’s bedside, reciting verses from the Quran, calling upon Allah’s mercy and healing power.

I had never felt so powerless in my entire life.

All the money in our treasury, all the influence our family wielded across the Middle East meant nothing when I could not wake up my own child.

By Thursday evening, after 36 hours of watching machines breathe for my daughter while her condition remained unchanged, desperation began consuming my faith.

I called in Islamic religious leaders, imams from the Grand Mosque in Mecca, asking them to offer special prayers for healing.

They assured me that Allah’s will would be done, but I needed more than philosophical comfort.

I needed my daughter to open her eyes.

It was during this darkest moment that my American business associate, Robert, arrived at the hospital.

I had worked with Robert for over 5 years on various oil contracts.

He was a Methodist from Texas, a kind man who had always been respectful of our Islamic customs during business dealings.

When he heard about the accident through our mutual contacts in the oil ministry, he had immediately flown to Riyad to offer support.

Robert found me in the family waiting room at nearly midnight on Friday, September 15th.

I had not slept or eaten properly in over 48 hours.

My faith felt as fragile as my daughter’s condition.

When he offered his condolences, I thanked him.

But when he said the words that would change everything, my world exploded.

Zuber, my brother Kand, I know this might sound unusual to you, but my church back in Dallas has been praying for your daughter since I told them about the accident.

Would you allow me to pray for her healing in the name of Jesus Christ? I have seen God work miracles before and I believe he wants to help your family.

The suggestion hit me like a physical blow.

Here I was a guardian of Islam’s holiest sites watching my daughter die despite the prayers of the most respected Islamic scholars in the kingdom.

And this American Christian was suggesting that his foreign god could succeed where Allah had not responded.

The presumption was beyond insulting, Robert, I said through gritted teeth.

I appreciate your concern, but we have our own prayers, our own God.

Allah will decide my daughter’s fate according to his will.

But Robert persisted with gentle insistence.

I understand your faith, my friend, but what if God wants to use Jesus to heal her? What if this is bigger than our different religions? Sometimes God works in ways we don’t expect.

Something inside me snapped.

The exhaustion, the fear, the feeling of abandonment by Allah.

All of it erupted in an explosion of rage that I had never experienced before.

Standing in that hospital hallway, I screamed words at Robert that I cannot fully repeat here.

I cursed Jesus Christ, calling him a false prophet, a dead man who had no power over the living.

I shouted that this Christian God was powerless compared to Allah, that Robert’s prayers were meaningless superstition from a corrupted faith.

“How dare you suggest that your foreign god has authority in my Islamic household?” I screamed.

“Jesus Christ is nothing but a man who died 2,000 years ago.

He has no power here.

Keep your worthless prayers to yourself.

” The moment those words left my mouth, I felt as if I had crossed a line from which there could be no return.

Robert stepped back, his face filled not with anger but with sadness.

He nodded quietly and said, “I understand your pain, brother, but I’m still going to pray for your daughter anyway.

” Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever spoken words in anger that you immediately knew were dangerous? That is exactly how I felt as I watched Robert walk away down that hospital corridor.

I had just insulted the God of Christianity with a fury that surprised even myself.

But my pride would not allow me to call him back, to apologize, to take back words that had come from the deepest place of desperation and rage.

I returned to my daughter’s room, where she lay as still and silent as before, the machines continuing their mechanical symphony of keeping her alive.

What I did not know was that my words of blasphemy had just set in motion events that would prove the power of the very God I had just insulted.

The atmosphere in my daughter’s hospital room changed within minutes of my explosive outburst against Jesus Christ.

I cannot explain what happened in scientific terms, but the very air seemed to shift as if an invisible presence had entered that sterile medical space.

The constant beeping of machines continued, but somehow even the mechanical rhythm seemed different, more purposeful, as if they were counting down to something momentous rather than simply monitoring a dying child.

I had returned to my daughter’s bedside after screaming those blasphemous words at Robert in the hallway.

My wife was sleeping in the chair beside the bed, exhausted from two days of constant prayer and worry.

I sat down heavily, my head in my hands, wondering if my anger had accomplished anything except driving away the one friend who had traveled across the world to support us in our darkest hour.

My daughter lay motionless, her small chest rising and falling, only because machines were forcing air into her lungs.

But then at exactly 3:15 in the morning, according to the digital clock on the wall, something began to happen that defied every medical explanation the doctors would later attempt to provide.

The monitor displaying my daughter’s intraanial pressure, which had been dangerously elevated for nearly 60 hours, began showing numbers that made me sit up straighter.

The reading was dropping steadily, consistently in a pattern that the neurosurgical team would later describe as medically impossible without intervention.

I pressed the call button for the nurse, thinking perhaps the equipment was malfunctioning.

Within minutes, our room filled with medical staff, led by the German neurosurgeon who had been monitoring my daughter’s case around the clock.

He studied the monitors with growing amazement, checked the equipment connections, and called for additional brain scans to verify what the machines were indicating.

Your highness, he said in his precise English, I cannot explain what we are observing.

The intraraanal pressure that has been threatening your daughter’s life is reducing rapidly.

This type of improvement typically requires surgical intervention or powerful medications that we have not administered.

Yet her brain swelling is decreasing on its own.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you think if medical professionals who had spent decades studying the human brain told you they could not explain what was happening to your child? I wanted to believe this was Allah answering our prayers, but the timing troubled me deeply.

The improvement had begun within minutes of my cursing Jesus Christ.

Was this coincidence or was something else at work? By 6:00 in the morning, the change in my daughter’s condition was so dramatic that additional specialists were called in to examine her.

The internal bleeding that had been slowly killing her for 3 days had completely stopped.

Her vital signs, which had been weak and inconsistent, strengthened to levels that approached normal ranges.

The neurosurgeon ordered a new CT scan and when the images appeared on his computer screen, he stared at them in silence for nearly 5 minutes before calling his colleagues to verify what he was seeing.

“The hemorrhaging has not only stopped,” he announced to the room of medical professionals.

“The damaged tissue is showing signs of regeneration that we typically do not see for weeks after this type of trauma, if at all.

I have never witnessed healing at this rate following such severe injuries.

My wife woke to find our room filled with doctors and nurses, all speaking in hushed, amazed tones about medical anomalies and unprecedented recovery patterns.

She grabbed my hand, tears streaming down her face, praising Allah for what seemed to be a miraculous response to our prayers.

But I found myself strangely conflicted, unable to shake the feeling that the timing of this healing was connected to my encounter with Robert and my subsequent blasphemy against his God.

Throughout Friday morning, my daughter’s improvement continued at a pace that astounded everyone involved in her care.

Her blood pressure stabilized, her heart rate strengthened, and most remarkably, the machines monitoring her brain activity began showing patterns that suggested returning consciousness.

The medical team reduced her sedation levels, hoping to assess her neurological responses, but prepared us for the possibility that even if she woke up, she might have suffered permanent brain damage from the trauma.

Then, at 2:30 in the afternoon on Friday, September 15th, exactly 24 hours after my outburst in the hospital corridor, my daughter’s eyes opened.

Not the unfocused, confused awakening that doctors had warned us to expect, but clear, alert awareness that immediately sought out familiar faces.

She looked directly at me, and her first words were not the disoriented questions of someone emerging from a coma, but a statement that would haunt me for months to come.

“Father,” she said in a voice that was weak, but perfectly lucid.

The kind man with the scars on his hands told me you were angry at him yesterday, but he said he understands because you love me so much.

The room fell completely silent.

My wife and I exchanged glances that contained a thousand unspoken questions.

Our daughter had been unconscious, heavily sedated for over 60 hours.

She could not possibly have known about my confrontation with Robert, let alone the specific content of our conversation.

Yet she was describing someone she had never met, someone whose physical characteristics she could not have known.

“What kind man?” “My precious daughter,” I asked, my voice barely steady enough to form the words.

“He came to see me while I was sleeping,” she replied with the matter-of-act tone that children use when describing the most extraordinary events.

He was wearing white clothes that seemed to glow, and he had the kindest eyes I have ever seen, but his hands had marks on them like someone had put nails through them.

He told me that my father was very scared and very angry, but that he loved me enough to heal me anyway.

The German neurosurgeon stepped closer to the bed, his medical training compelling him to assess whether these statements indicated brain damage or hallucinations.

But my daughter’s responses to his neurological tests were perfect.

Her memory was intact.

Her reasoning was clear, and her motor functions were completely normal.

According to every medical standard, she was not only conscious, but completely recovered from injuries that should have killed her or left her permanently disabled.

Did this man tell you his name? I asked, though I was beginning to fear the answer.

Yes, father.

He said his name was Jesus and that even though you said angry words about him, he wanted to show you what love really means.

He said you would understand soon.

The medical team began discussing possible explanations for what they were witnessing.

Hallucinations from medication, false memories created by trauma, psychological manifestations of the family’s stress.

But I knew with a certainty that terrified me that my daughter was describing an encounter that had actually occurred.

She was describing Jesus Christ, the very God I had insulted with such vehements just 24 hours earlier.

By evening, my daughter was sitting up in bed eating solid food and asking when she could go home.

Every test, every scan, every medical evaluation indicated complete recovery from injuries that had been fatal just days before.

The neurosurgical team was preparing case studies about her unprecedented healing, using terms like spontaneous recovery and medical anomaly to describe what had happened.

But I knew this was neither spontaneous nor anomalous.

This was a direct response from the God I had cursed, the Jesus I had called powerless.

He had taken my words of blasphemy and answered them with a demonstration of divine power that no medical science could explain.

My daughter was living proof that the man I had insulted as a dead prophet was very much alive and very much in control of life and death itself.

That night, as I sat beside my daughter’s bed, watching her sleep peacefully for the first time in 4 days, I realized that everything I thought I knew about God, about power, about truth itself, had been shattered by 24 hours of impossible healing.

The week following my daughter’s miraculous recovery was the most spiritually tumultuous period of my entire life.

On the surface, everything appeared to have returned to normal.

My daughter was discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of health.

The medical team still scratching their heads over her unprecedented healing.

We returned to our palace where servants celebrated her recovery.

And Islamic religious leaders praised Allah for answering our prayers.

But inside my mind, a war was raging between everything I had been taught to believe and what I had witnessed with my own eyes.

I tried desperately to fit my daughter’s healing into my Islamic worldview.

Perhaps Allah had used this experience to test my faith.

I reasoned.

Maybe the vision she described was a psychological manifestation of her trauma.

Her young mind creating familiar religious imagery to cope with her near-death experience.

I consulted with the most learned Islamic scholars in Riyad, describing the events in carefully vague terms, asking about divine healing and the nature of visions during medical emergencies.

But every night when the palace grew quiet and my daughter was sleeping peacefully in her room, the questions that I could silence during the day would return with overwhelming force.

How could Allah have used the name of Jesus to heal my daughter? Why had the healing begun immediately after I had cursed Christ with such vehements? Most troubling of all, why did my daughter continue to speak about her encounter with such vivid detail and unshakable certainty? She would sit with me during our evening prayers and afterward as we had always done we would discuss spiritual matters.

But now her questions had changed completely.

Instead of asking about Quranic uh interpretations or Islamic history, she wanted to know about Jesus.

Why had she never heard stories about him beyond what the Quran briefly mentioned? If he was just a prophet, as I had taught her, why did he have scars on his hands from crucifixion? Why had he spoken to her about love and forgiveness in ways that seemed different from everything she had learned about Allah? Father, she said one evening, about 10 days after the accident, the man who visited me in the hospital said that he loved me so much that he was willing to die for me.

He said he had died for you too, even though you were angry with him.

Is that true? I found myself unable to answer her directly.

According to Islamic teaching, quote, “Jesus had not actually died on the cross.

God had made it appear so while taking Jesus up to heaven.

But my daughter was describing someone who bore the physical evidence of crucifixion.

Someone who spoke of his death as a willing sacrifice motivated by love.

How could I explain this contradiction to a child when I could not resolve it myself?” 3 weeks after the accident, I made a decision that would have been unthinkable just a month earlier.

I contacted a discrete book dealer in Dubai and arranged for an English translation of the Christian Bible to be delivered to my private office through confidential channels.

When the package arrived wrapped in plain brown paper, I felt like I was handling contraband that could destroy my reputation and my position within the royal family.

I began reading the New Testament late at night in my locked study when the rest of the household was asleep.

The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John presented a Jesus that was completely different from the prophet I had learned about in Islamic texts.

This was not merely a messenger delivering God’s word, but someone claiming to be God himself, performing miracles, forgiving sins, and promising eternal life to those who believed in him.

As I read about Jesus healing the sick, raising the dead, and demonstrating power over natural forces, I could not escape the parallels to what had happened to my daughter.

The same Jesus who had healed a centurion servant from a distance, who had restored sight to the blind and speech to the mute, had somehow reached across 2,000 years to heal my child in a modern hospital room.

The gospel of John particularly disturbed me with its opening declaration that in the beginning was the word and the word.

The word was with God and the word was God.

This was exactly the kind of Christian theology that Islam explicitly rejected.

The claim that Jesus was divine rather than simply human.

Yet, how could I dismiss such claims when I had witnessed divine power exercised in Jesus’s name? Look inside your own heart right now and imagine discovering that everything you believed about the nature of God might be incomplete.

That is exactly the spiritual crisis I faced during those long nights of secret Bible reading.

Every page seemed to speak directly to my situation, as if this ancient text had been written specifically to address the questions that tormented my thoughts.

My daughter’s recovery continued to be complete and remarkable.

Follow-up medical appointments showed no lingering effects from her injuries, no cognitive impairment, no physical limitations.

She was exactly the same brilliant, energetic child she had been before the accident, except for one significant change.

She could not stop talking about her encounter with Jesus.

She began drawing pictures of the man she had met, always depicting him in white robes with kind eyes and not nail scarred hands.

Her drawings showed remarkable consistency and detail for a child’s artwork.

When I asked her art teacher about these images, she mentioned that my daughter had been asking questions about crucifixion and resurrection, topics that were certainly not part of our Islamic curriculum.

One month after the accident, my daughter made a request that shattered my remaining attempts to rationalize what had happened.

She asked if we could visit a Christian church so she could properly thank Jesus for healing her.

The innocence with which she made this request, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, revealed how completely her encounter had transformed her understanding of spiritual reality.

Father, she said in our prayers we always thank Allah for his blessings.

Should I not thank Jesus for what he did for me? He saved my life and I have never even said thank you.

That night I found myself on my knees in my study surrounded by Islamic prayer rugs and Quranic verses inscribed on the walls but crying out to Jesus Christ for the first time in my life.

I was not yet ready to abandon my Islamic faith, but I could no longer deny that the God I had insulted was real, powerful, and apparently more merciful than I deserved.

“Jesus,” I whispered in that darkened room.

“I do not understand who you are or why you healed my daughter after I cursed your name.

But I can no longer pretend that what happened was coincidence.

If you are truly God, if you are more than just a prophet, please show me the truth.

I surrender my pride, my position, even my life if necessary.

Just show me who you really are.

The moment I spoke those words, I felt a peace that I had never experienced before.

A sense of being forgiven for something I had not even fully confessed.

It was the beginning of a spiritual journey that would cost me everything I had ever known, but would give me something far more valuable in return.

The next three months of my life were a masterclass in living a double existence.

By day, I continued my royal duties, attending state functions, overseeing oil ministry operations, and participating in Islamic prayers with my family.

But by night, I was secretly studying Christianity with the desperate hunger of someone who had glimpsed truth and could no longer be satisfied with anything less.

My prayer time to Jesus in my study became a nightly ritual.

I would wait until the household was completely quiet, then lock my door and spread my prayer rug toward no particular direction.

Not Mecca, but simply toward heaven.

I began speaking to Jesus as if he were physically present in the room, confessing my sins, my doubts, my fears about what embracing his truth would cost me and my family.

Most remarkably, I began receiving what I can only describe as direct answers to my prayers.

Not audible voices, but unmistakable impressions in my spirit that guided my understanding and brought supernatural peace to my tormented soul.

Through discrete inquiries among the expatriate community in Riyad, I located an underground Christian pastor who ministered secretly to foreign workers in the kingdom.

Pastor Samuel was a Filipino man who had been conducting clandestine Bible studies for nearly a decade, always careful to avoid detection by the religious police, who would have immediately deported him and imprisoned any Saudi nationals found attending his gatherings.

Our first meeting took place in a storage room behind a medical supply warehouse in an industrial district outside Riyad.

I arrived wearing traditional Saudi dress, but with a cloth covering my face, more afraid of being recognized than I had ever been during any political negotiation.

Pastor Samuel, a small man with gentle eyes and calloused hands, greeted me with the kind of joy that suggested he had been praying for exactly this encounter.

Brother Zuber, he said using the name I had given him.

Jesus has been preparing your heart for this moment since before you were born.

Tell me about the miracle that brought you here.

For 2 hours, I recounted every detail of my daughter’s accident, my blasphemous outburst, her impossible healing, and the spiritual crisis that had consumed my thoughts ever since.

Pastor Samuel listened without interruption, occasionally nodding with the recognition of someone who had witnessed God’s supernatural intervention many times before.

“What you experience was not unusual for our savior,” he explained.

“Jesus specializes in responding to curse with blessing, to hatred with love, to rejection with acceptance.

Your daughter’s healing was not despite your blasphemy, but because of God’s desire to reveal his true nature to you through your most vulnerable point, your love for your child.

Pastor Samuel began meeting with me twice weekly, always in different locations to avoid establishing patterns that might attract attention.

He taught me about salvation by grace through faith.

About Jesus’s sacrificial death and resurrection, about the Holy Spirit’s role in transforming believers hearts.

Each lesson dismantled another pillar of my Islamic worldview while simultaneously building something far more beautiful in its place.

The theological differences between Islam and Christianity were vast.

But the more I studied, the more I realized that Christianity offered answers to spiritual questions that Islam had never satisfactorily addressed.

The concept of God’s love being demonstrated through personal sacrifice rather than simply demanded through submission revolutionized my understanding of the divine nature.

The promise of eternal assurance rather than hoping my good deeds might outweigh my sins brought a peace that I had never known was possible.

After six weeks of intensive Bible study and prayer, I made the decision that would change the trajectory of my entire existence.

On a Friday evening in November 2017, in Pastor Samuel’s humble apartment, I publicly confessed my faith in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.

The words came from the deepest place in my soul, a recognition that I was not simply adding Jesus to my existing religious beliefs, but surrendering my entire life to his lordship.

Jesus Christ, I prayed aloud while Pastor Samuel and two other secret believers placed their hands on my shoulders.

I confess that you are the son of God, that you died on the cross for my sins, and that you rose from the dead to give me eternal life.

I renounce my former understanding of you as merely a prophet, and accept you as my God and Savior.

transform my heart, guide my steps, and give me courage to follow you regardless of the cost.

” 3 days later, Pastor Samuel baptized me in the swimming pool of my own palace at 3:00 in the morning.

The symbolic death and resurrection that Christian baptism represents felt powerfully real as I went under the water as Zubar, the Saudi prince, and emerged as Zuber, the follower of Jesus Christ.

The irony that my baptism took place in the very heart of the kingdom that considered such an act treasonous was not lost on me.

My daughter’s spiritual journey paralleled my own, though with the beautiful simplicity that characterizes childhood faith.

When I explained to her what I had learned about Jesus, she responded with immediate understanding and excitement.

Father, this makes perfect sense.

The man who healed me was not just a prophet.

He was God himself.

And he loves us so much that he was willing to die for us.

Her baptism took place 2 weeks after mine in the same palace pool with the same secretive arrangements.

Watching my 10-year-old daughter disappear beneath the water and emerge with a radiant smile, declaring her faith in the Jesus who had saved her life, remains one of the most precious moments of my spiritual journey.

But we both understood that our newfound faith would have to remain completely hidden from the rest of our family and the royal court.

Saudi Arabia’s laws against apostasy are brutal and unforgiving.

Renouncing Islam in favor of Christianity was not only illegal but punishable by death or for someone of my political position exile and complete disinheritance from the royal family.

For 6 months we maintained our double lives with careful precision.

We attended family prayers, participated in Islamic holidays, and fulfilled our royal obligations while secretly studying the Bible, praying to Jesus, and growing in our Christian faith through Pastor Samuel’s continued disciplehip.

I am asking you, just as a father would ask his children, to imagine the psychological strain of praising Allah in public while your heart belongs completely to Jesus Christ.

Every Islamic prayer felt like betrayal of my true faith.

Every public religious statement felt like denial of my savior.

Yet the alternative was risking not only my own safety, but potentially my daughter’s future and welfare.

The burden of deception weighed heavily on both of us, but particularly on my daughter, whose natural childlike honesty made pretense extremely difficult.

She would occasionally slip during family conversations, mentioning Jesus in ways that raised eyebrows among relatives, catching herself just in time to avoid more serious questions.

Our carefully maintained secret began unraveling in March 2018 when my younger brother discovered my hidden Bible and Christian literature during an unexpected visit to my private study.

The confrontation that followed would force us to choose between the comfortable lie we had been living and the dangerous truth that our hearts could no longer deny.

My brother’s discovery of my Christian materials happened on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday morning in March 2018.

He had arrived at the palace unexpectedly to discuss oil ministry business, finding me in meetings with European contractors.

Rather than wait in the formal reception areas, he made himself comfortable in my private study, something he had done countless times over the years, without any concern from either of us.

When I returned from my meetings 2 hours later, I found him sitting behind my desk, holding my English Bible open to the Gospel of John, his face a mixture of shock, confusion, and growing anger.

Scattered across the desk were my handwritten notes on Christian theology, copies of sermons from Pastor Samuel, and a small wooden cross that I had been using as a bookmark.

“Brother,” he said in a voice that was barely controlled, “Please tell me there is an innocent explanation for what I have found here.

Please tell me you have not abandoned Islam for the blasphemous beliefs of Christians.

” In that moment, I faced the choice that every secret believer eventually confronts.

Continue living the lie that provides safety and comfort or stand for the truth that could cost everything.

I looked at my brother, a man I had loved and respected my entire life, and realized that our relationship would never be the same regardless of what I said.

The truth would destroy us immediately.

A lie would destroy us slowly.

I cannot give you the explanation you want, I said quietly, closing the study door behind me.

6 months ago, Jesus Christ revealed himself to me through our daughter’s miraculous healing.

I have studied, prayed, and sought God’s will with all my heart.

I am no longer a Muslim.

I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

The silence that followed was deafening.

My brother sat down the Bible as if it had physically burned his hands, his face cycling through emotions I had never seen before.

When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of someone pronouncing a death sentence.

Do you understand what you have just confessed to me? Do you realize that what you have done is not only apostasy under Islamic law, but treason against the kingdom? Father must be told immediately.

The religious authorities must be notified.

You have committed crimes punishable by death.

For the next four hours, my brother and I engaged in the most intense theological and political discussion of our lives.

I explained everything.

The accident, my blasphemy against Jesus, the impossible healing, my daughter’s vision, and the months of study that had led to our conversions.

My brother listened with growing horror, occasionally interrupting with Quranic verses meant to refute Christian doctrine, but unable to provide any alternative explanation for the miraculous events I described.

Even if everything you say is true, he finally said, even if this Jesus somehow healed our niece, you cannot abandon 1500 years of family tradition.

our responsibility as guardians of Islam’s holiest sites, our duty to the kingdom.

This is bigger than your personal religious experience.

That evening, my brother arranged a family meeting that would determine my fate within the royal household.

In attendance were my father, two uncles who held senior positions in the government, and the family’s senior Islamic adviser, a man who had guided our spiritual education for decades.

My daughter was deliberately excluded from this gathering, though I knew her future was very much at stake in these discussions.

The confrontation lasted until nearly 3:00 in the morning.

My father, a man who had never shown weakness in political or personal matters, wept openly as I recounted my conversion experience.

The family’s Islamic advisor declared my conversion a temporary spiritual crisis brought on by trauma, something that could be corrected through intensive religious counseling and renewed commitment to Islamic teachings.

But when they demanded that I publicly renounce my Christian faith and destroy all evidence of my conversion, I found myself unable to comply.

Standing in that ornate family conference room, surrounded by men whose approval had defined my entire life, I realized that my loyalty to Jesus Christ had become more important than my loyalty to anyone or anything else.

I cannot deny what Jesus has done for my family, I stated with a firmness that surprised even myself.

I cannot pretend that my daughter was not healed by divine intervention in Christ’s name.

I cannot return to calling Jesus merely a prophet when I have experienced his power as God himself.

My father’s response was swift and devastating.

I was immediately stripped of my position in the oil ministry.

My royal allowances were suspended and I was placed under house arrest pending a decision about more serious consequences.

My passport was confiscated, my bank accounts were frozen, and guards were stationed at the palace to monitor my activities and communications.

The religious police were notified of my apostasy, beginning an investigation that could have resulted in a public trial and execution.

For two weeks, I was interrogated daily by Islamic authorities who alternated between threats of severe punishment and offers of complete forgiveness if I would publicly renounce Christianity and return to Islam.

During this period of confinement, my daughter and I were permitted to remain together under God, but we were forbidden from leaving the palace grounds or communicating with anyone outside the royal family.

It was during these dark days that our faith in Jesus was tested most severely as we faced the reality that following Christ might cost us our homeland, our family, and potentially our lives.

The turning point came when international pressure began mounting on the Saudi government regarding our case.

Somehow, word of a royal conversion to Christianity had leaked to Western media outlets, and diplomatic channels were being used to inquire about our welfare and safety.

The potential embarrassment of executing or imprisoning a prince for religious conversion was creating political complications that the kingdom preferred to avoid.

After a month of house arrest and increasing international attention, my father presented me with an ultimatum that would end our royal family crisis, but begin our exile from everything we had ever known.

We could leave Saudi Arabia permanently with basic financial support and assurance of our safety.

But we would be stripped of all royal titles, forbidden from ever returning to the kingdom, and officially disowned by the House of Saud.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine choosing between the security of everything you have ever known and the uncertain future that faithfulness to God requires.

That choice, as difficult as it was, became surprisingly easy when I considered the alternative of denying the Jesus who had saved my daughter’s life and transformed our hearts.

On April 15th, 2018, exactly 7 months after my daughter’s miraculous healing, we boarded a private jet bound for Jordan, carrying nothing but two suitcases and an unshakable faith in the God who had brought us this far.

As the plane lifted off from King Khaled International Airport, my daughter looked out the window at the receding lights of Riyad and said, “Father, we lost a kingdom on earth, but we gained the kingdom of heaven.

” Today, 7 years later, we live in exile, but in freedom to worship the Jesus who saved us both.

My daughter is now 17 years old, a brilliant young woman who plans to become a medical missionary to the Arab world.

She speaks regularly at international Christian conferences about God’s healing power and his love for Muslim people.

We have established a ministry that translates Christian materials into Arabic and provides support for Muslim converts to Christianity throughout the Middle East.

Every person who comes to faith in Christ through our ministry makes the cost of our conversion worthwhile because we understand that eternal souls are more valuable than earthly kingdoms.

I stand before you today as living proof that Jesus Christ still performs miracles, still responds to blasphemy with grace, and still transforms hearts that surrender completely to his lordship.

If he could forgive a Saudi prince who cursed his name in rage, he can forgive anyone willing to accept his mercy and follow his truth.

The God who saved my daughter’s life has given us a new life, a new purpose, and a new family in the global body of Christ.

From insult to salvation, from blasphemy to blessing, from prince to missionary.