My name is Amina.

I’m 28 years old, born into Saudi royalty in 1995.

On September 7th, 2019, I committed an act that should have cost me my life.

I burned the Quran in the palace courtyard and declared Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.

I was born third daughter to Prince Abdullah bin Rashid al- Sawud in the sprawling royal palace of Riyad.

From the moment I could walk, my life was orchestrated around Islamic devotion and royal duty.

Every morning at 4:30, the call to prayer would echo through a marble corridors, and I would rise from silk sheets to perform ablutions in goldplated basins.

My childhood was spent memorizing verses from the Quran under the watchful eyes of private tutors who measured my worth by how perfectly I could recite the sacred words.

The palace was a fortress of luxury that felt more like a beautiful prison.

Imagined living in a golden cage where your every breath is monitored.

I wore designer abayas crafted by the finest tailor in Paris.

But beneath the expensive fabric, I felt suffocated by expectations.

My days were scheduled down to the minute.

Arabic lessons, Islamic studies, royal protocol training, and endless preparation for public appearances where I represented the ideal Muslim woman to our kingdom and the world.

By age 16, I had memorized half the Quran and could recite prayers in perfect classical Arabic.

The religious authorities praised my devotion and my father would beam with pride when Islamic scholars compet complimented my spiritual discipline.

I attended women’s religious gatherings where we studied hadiths and discussed our roles as Muslim daughters, wives and mothers.

Everything seemed perfect from the outside, but inside my heart something felt hollow.

I performed every ritual flawlessly, but my soul felt like a desert.

Five times daily, I would prostrate myself toward Mecca, but my prayers felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling.

I fasted during Ramadan with perfect dedication, gave zakat to the poor as required, and spoke only words that honored Allah and the prophet.

Yet, despite this religious perfection, I carried a deep emptiness that no amount of prayer or palace luxury could fill.

The pressure to be a model Muslim woman intensified as I entered my 20s.

My father arranged meetings with potential suitors from other royal families, all devout Muslim men who would expect me to raise their children in strict Islamic tradition.

I attended public ceremonies where I was displayed as an example of Saudi feminine virtue, always properly covered, always silent unless spoken to, always representing the success of our Islamic kingdom.

But behind the palace walls, I witnessed things that disturbed my conscience.

I saw servants beaten for minor infractions, watched public executions from my window, and heard stories of women punished for perceived moral failures.

When I asked my Islamic teachers about Allah’s mercy, they would quote verses about divine justice and punishment.

But something in my heart yearned for a god who offered more than fear-based obedience.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever felt spiritually hungry despite being religiously fed? That was my constant state.

I had everything the world could offer.

Unlimited wealth, royal privilege, religious education, and social status.

Yet, I felt like I was dying inside.

My prayers felt mechanical.

My religious study felt empty.

And my heart cried out for something I couldn’t name.

The first crack in my Islamic faith appeared during the winter of 2017 when I witnessed the public execution of a man accused of blasphemy.

As I watched from my palace balcony, I saw something in his face that haunted me for months.

Despite facing death, he radiated a peace I had never experienced in all my years of Islamic devotion.

His final words before the sword fell were not curses or cries for mercy, but something that sounded like gratitude.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I performed extra prayers, read additional Quranic verses, and begged Allah to remove the doubts creeping into my mind.

But the image of that man’s peaceful face wouldn’t leave me.

What kind of faith could give someone such serenity in the face of death? What did he know that I with all my religious training and royal privilege did not? The growing restlessness in my spirit intensified throughout 2018.

During religious lectures, I found myself questioning teachings I had never doubted before.

When imams spoke about Allah’s love, it sounded conditional based on perfect obedience and proper ritual.

When they discussed women’s roles, I felt diminished rather than elevated.

When they explained salvation, it seemed dependent on my own good works rather than any assurance of divine grace.

In January 2018, everything changed when I discovered something that would alter the course of my entire life.

While inspecting my private chambers after renovation work, I found a small worn book hidden behind a loose stone in my bathroom wall.

It was a Bible in Arabic, apparently left by one of the Filipino construction workers.

My first instinct was revulsion and fear.

I had been taught that this was a corrupted book full of lies about Allah and blasphemies against Islam.

But as I held that forbidden book in my trembling hands, curiosity overwhelmed my religious conditioning.

The leather cover was soft with age, and the pages fell open to a section called the Gospel of Matthew.

Despite every Islamic warning against reading Christian scriptures, I found myself unable to resist scanning the first few lines.

What I read there would begin a spiritual journey that would cost me everything I had ever known, but give me everything my soul had been desperately seeking.

That small Bible became both my greatest treasure and my most dangerous secret.

I hid it in different locations around my chambers, terrified that discovery would mean immediate death, yet unable to stop reading the words that seemed to speak directly to the emptiness in my heart.

For weeks after discovering that Bible, I lived in constant terror and overwhelming curiosity.

Every night after the final prayer call, I would wait until the palace settled and into silence before retrieving the hidden book from behind the loose marble tile in my bathroom.

The risk was enormous.

If any servant, guard, or family member discovered me reading Christian scriptures, it would mean immediate execution for apostasy.

Yet I was powerless to stop myself from opening those pages.

These words felt like water to a woman dying of thirst.

The first gospel I read completely was Matthew and I was stunned by the teachings of Jesus.

In the sermon on the mount, I encountered concepts that contradicted everything I had learned about God’s nature.

This Jesus spoke of loving your enemies, blessing those who curse you, turning the other cheek when struck.

In Islam, I had learned about justice and righteous anger against enemies of Allah.

But here was a teacher advocating for radical forgiveness and unconditional love.

What shook me most profoundly was reading about Jesus’s interactions with women.

In my Islamic upbringing, women were valuable but secondary, created to serve and support men, requiring male guardianship in all aspects of life.

But this Jesus treated women as equals, defending them, teaching them, allowing them to follow him as disciples.

The woman caught in adultery received mercy instead of stoning.

The Samaritan woman at the well was engaged in theological discussion rather than dismissed.

Mary Magdalene was chosen to be the first witness of his resurrection.

Night after night, I read about miracles that demonstrated not just power but compassion.

Jesus healing the sick, feeding the hungry, comforting the grieving.

Every story revealed a God who came down to serve rather than demanding to be served, who suffered rather than inflicting suffering, who offered free salvation rather than requiring earned righteousness.

This was so different from the Allah I knew whose love seemed conditional on perfect obedience and whose mercy was balanced by swift justice.

The spiritual battle that raged in my mind became unbearable.

During the day I performed my Islamic duties with growing internal conflict when I prostrated toward Mecca.

I found myself thinking about Jesus’s teachings on prayer.

How he encouraged people to approach God as father rather than distant master.

When I recited Quranic verses about Allah’s 99 names, I remembered Jesus’s claiming to be the way, the truth, and the life.

When Islamic teachers spoke of earning paradise through good deeds, I thought about Jesus promising eternal life as a free gift through faith.

The guilt was crushing.

I had been taught that even touching a Christian Bible was contaminating, that reading it was spiritual poison that would lead me to hell.

Every night as I read, I prayed to Allah for forgiveness, begging him to protect me from corruption while simultaneously unable to stop consuming the words that were feeding my starving soul.

I felt like I was betraying my family, my culture, my entire identity.

Yet something deeper than logic or loyalty was drawing me to continue.

By summer of 2018, I had read the entire New Testament twice.

The picture of Jesus that emerged from those pages was nothing like what I had been taught in Islamic studies.

Rather than a mere prophet who had been corrupted by later followers, he appeared as someone claiming to be God himself, demonstrating divine authority through miracles, teaching with wisdom that surpassed any earthly teacher, and most importantly offering himself as sacrifice for human sin.

The concept of atonement was revolutionary to my Islamic mind.

In Islam, every person stands before Allah based on their own deeds, their own prayers, their own righteousness.

The scales would be weighed on judgment day.

And only those whose good deeds outweighed their sins would enter paradise.

But Jesus offered something completely different.

His own righteousness covering our sins.

His death paying the price we could never pay.

his resurrection proving victory over death itself.

The turning point came in August 2018 when I witnessed another public execution.

This time of a man accused of converting from Islam to Christianity.

As I watched from my palace balcony, I was prepared for the same peaceful expression I had seen before.

But this execution was different.

As the man was led to the chopping block, he began to sing.

Even from a distance, I could hear his voice raised in what sounded like worship.

When the executioner raised his sword, the man shouted words that cut through my heart like a blade.

Jesus, receive my spirit.

That man died with more peace than I had living in luxury.

I rushed back to my chambers, fell to my knees, and wept like I had never wept before.

How could someone face death with such confidence? What kind of faith could transform terror into triumph? As I sobbed on my marble floor, I realized that all my Islamic devotion had never given me the assurance that these dying Christians possessed.

They knew something I didn’t know.

Believed something I had been forbidden to believe.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Can you ignore truth when it’s staring at you? For months, I had been fighting against a growing conviction that Jesus was more than just a prophet.

That the gospel was more than just a corrupted message.

That Christianity offered something Islam never could.

The internal war was destroying me.

I was losing weight, unable to sleep, distracted during prayers, emotionally distant from my family.

In December 2018, everything reached a breaking point.

I had attended a particularly harsh religious lecture about the dangers of foreign influences corrupting young Muslim minds.

The Imam spoke with venom about Christians who who dared to share their faith with Muslims, describing them as enemies of Allah who deserved severe punishment.

As he detailed the torments, awaiting those who abandoned Islam, I felt my spirit breaking under the weight of fear and confusion.

That night, alone in my chambers, I fell on my face before the God I no longer knew how to address.

Through tears and desperation, I cried out, “God, whoever you are, whatever your true name might be, I am dying inside.

Show me the truth.

Even if it costs me everything, I cannot continue living this lie.

What happened next changed my life forever.

” As I lay weeping on the cold marble floor, my room suddenly filled with the most incredible light I had ever seen.

I looked up and standing before me was a figure I recognized from my secret Bible reading.

It was Jesus with nail scarred hands extended toward me.

His eyes full of love and compassion that made my royal father’s affection seem pale in comparison.

His voice was gentle but powerful as he spoke these words that are burned into my memory forever.

Amina, my daughter, I have loved you with an everlasting love.

I have been calling your name through every page you read, drawing you to myself through every doubt and question.

You are precious in my sight, and I want to give you the life you’ve been searching for.

In that moment, every defense I had built around my Islamic faith crumbled.

I knew with absolute certainty that Jesus was not just a prophet, but God himself, who had become human to rescue me from spiritual death.

The peace that flooded my heart was beyond anything I had experienced in 23 years of Islamic devotion.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly known, completely loved, and eternally secure.

I woke the morning after my encounter with Jesus, feeling like I had been reborn.

The heavy emptiness that had plagued my soul for years was gone, replaced by a joy so profound it seemed to radiate from every cell in my body.

I felt like I had been blind my whole life.

and suddenly could see.

Colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer, and even the marble walls of my palace prison couldn’t contain the freedom I felt inside my spirit.

For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be truly alive.

But this newfound joy came with an immediate and terrifying realization.

I could no longer participate in Islamic prayers without feeling like I was denying the very God who had just revealed himself to me.

That first morning, when the call to prayer echoed through the palace, I remained in my bed, unable to bring myself to prostrate toward Mecca.

My heart now belonged to Jesus, and every Islamic ritual felt like betrayal of my savior.

The next weeks were spent in intense Bible study.

I devoured the New Testament with new understanding, seeing Jesus not as a distant historical figure, but as my personal Lord and Redeemer.

Every parable spoke to my heart.

Every miracle demonstrated his power.

Every teaching revealed his love.

I spent entire days in my chambers claiming illness to avoid family interactions while I absorbed the words that were transforming my entire world view.

I wrote a private declaration of faith on palace stationery, pouring out my heart to the Jesus who had saved me.

The words flowed like water.

Jesus Christ, I believe you are the son of God, that you died for my sins and rose from the dead.

I renounce Islam and all false gods.

I surrender my life completely to you regardless of the cost.

Make me your faithful servant until my last breath.

I hid this letter in the same place where I had concealed the Bible, a written testimony of the complete transformation of my heart.

How could I keep silent about the one who saved my soul? This question tormented me as I struggled with the implications of my conversion.

In Islamic law, apostasy is punishable by death.

And in Saudi Arabia, this law is enforced without mercy.

I knew that declaring my faith in Jesus would mean immediate execution, probably preceded by torture designed to force recantation.

My entire family would be dishonored and they would likely disown me before my death.

Yet hiding my faith felt impossible.

Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw someone completely different from the Muslim princess I had been just days before.

Jesus had called me his daughter.

And daughters don’t hide their father’s identity.

The Bible I had been reading spoke clearly about confession of faith being necessary for salvation.

Jesus himself had said that whoever denied him before men, he would deny before his father in heaven.

Sleep became impossible as I wrestled with this decision.

Night after night, I paced my chambers, weighing the cost of public declaration against the cost of secret faith.

Jesus appeared to me in dreams and visions, not commanding me to martyrdom, but encouraging me to trust him with the consequences of obedience.

His gentle voice would whisper, “Fear not, my daughter.

I will be with you through whatever comes.

Your life is hidden with me and God.

” The internal conflict reached a breaking point in late August 2019.

During a family dinner, my father announced his intention to arrange my marriage to a prominent Islamic scholar’s son.

The man was known for his strict religious views and had publicly advocated for harsh punishments against apostates.

As I sat listening to plans for my future as this man’s wife raising children in Islamic tradition, I felt like I was suffocating.

This wasn’t about hate.

This was about choosing life over death.

The decision crystallized in my mind with stunning clarity.

I could not marry a Muslim man while being a Christian woman.

I could not raise children in a faith I knew to be false.

I could not continue living a lie while my savior had paid the ultimate price for truth.

Whatever the consequences, I had to publicly declare my allegiance to Jesus Christ.

I spent September planning my declaration with the same precision my ancestors had used to plan military campaigns.

This would not be a private conversation or gradual revelation, but a public pronouncement that would leave no room for misunderstanding or family attempts to cover up my conversion.

I chose the central palace courtyard where servants, guards, and family members regularly gathered for afternoon prayers.

The method of declaration came to me during prayer.

I would take my personal Quran, a jewel encrusted volume that had been a gift for my 20th birthday, and burn it publicly while declaring my faith in Jesus Christ.

This symbolic act would demonstrate beyond any doubt that I was renouncing Islam completely and accepting the consequences of apostasy.

There would be no way for my family to claim temporary insanity or foreign influence.

I wrote farewell letters to each family member explaining my decision and expressing love despite knowing they would hate me for it.

To my father, I wrote of gratitude for his provision, but explained that I had found my true father in heaven.

To my mother, I shared my hope that she would one day understand the peace I had discovered.

To my sisters, I pleaded with them to seek the truth for themselves.

I sealed these letters and hid them in my chambers, planning for their discovery after my arrest.

September 7th, 2019 dawned clear and hot, typical for Riyad.

In early autumn, I performed my morning routine mechanically, knowing it would be my last day of royal privilege.

I dressed in a simple white abaya, symbolizing the purity I felt in Christ, and spent the morning in final prayer and Bible reading.

The peace I felt was supernatural, beyond human understanding, as if Jesus himself was wrapping his arms around me in preparation for what was to come.

At exactly noon, when the courtyard would be bustling with pre- prayer activity, I walked out carrying my ornate Quran.

Servants and guards looked puzzled as I approached the central fountain, but no one questioned a royal princess going about her religious duties.

I placed the holy book on the marble ledge, and for a moment, 23 years of Islamic conditioning screamed at me to stop.

Then I remembered Jesus’s nailscarred hands reaching toward me, his voice calling me daughter, his promise of eternal life.

I struck a match I had concealed in my sleeve and declared in a voice that carried across the courtyard.

I renounce Islam and all false gods.

I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, the only way to eternal life.

As the flames consumed the Quran, I continued proclaiming salvation through Christ alone.

Even as chaos erupted around me, the peace I felt in that moment was worth more than my entire kingdom.

Guards rushed toward me.

Servants screamed in horror.

And within minutes, I was surrounded by palace security.

But as they tackled me to the ground and bound my hands, I continued praising Jesus, knowing that I had finally done what my Savior had called me to do.

I had publicly declared my allegiance to the King of Kings, and whatever happened next, my soul belonged to him forever.

The palace guards dragged me from the courtyard like a common criminal.

My white abaya torn and stained from being thrown to the marble stones within minutes of my declaration.

I was stripped of every royal privilege I had ever known.

The jeweled rings were p pulled from my fingers.

The gold bracelets yanked from my wrists.

And the silk hijab ripped from my head.

They shoved me into the palace dungeon, a place I had never known existed beneath the luxury I had called home for 24 years.

The cell was a concrete box barely large enough to lie down, with a single barred window high above that let in a thin shaft of light.

The contrast was jarring.

Just hours before, I had been sleeping on silk sheets in a room larger than most people’s homes.

And now I was confined to a space that rire of human waste and despair.

They gave me a rough brown robe to replace my torn abaya and a thin mat for the concrete floor.

My meals consisted of stale bread and lukewarm water delivered once daily through a slot in the metal door.

The guards took particular pleasure in tormenting me.

They would spit through the bars, calling me filthy names in Arabic that questioned my sanity and virtue.

Some would bang metal objects against the cell bars during the night to prevent sleep, while others would recite Quranic verses loudly, demanding that I repeat them.

When I refused and instead quietly sang Christian hymns I had memorized from my Bible reading.

They would throw dirty water through the bars, soaking my already inadequate clothing.

My father’s first visit came 3 days after my arrest.

I had never seen him so angry.

His face was purple with rage and his hands shook as he gripped the cell bars.

The man who had once called me his precious daughter now looked at me with pure hatred.

He screamed at me for bringing shame upon our family name, for destroying our reputation in the kingdom, for spitting on everything our ancestors had died to preserve.

His ultimatum was delivered with the cold precision of a royal decree.

Renounce this Christian madness immediately.

publicly proclaim your return to Islam and I might allow you to live in ex exile.

Refuse and you are no longer my daughter.

You will die as a traitor to Allah and to this family.

The pain in their eyes almost broke my resolve.

But when I told him that Jesus was my true father now, he struck the bars so hard his knuckles bled cursing me as he stormed away.

My mother’s visit was even more heartbreaking.

She came the next week weeping uncontrollably, throwing herself against the cell door and begging me to recant.

She spoke of her love for me, of the grandchildren I would never give her, of the wedding she had dreamed of planning.

Her tears soaked through her black abaya as she pleaded with me to come to my senses.

When I tried to explain the joy I had found in Jesus, she wailed as if I were already dead, crying out to Allah to restore her daughter’s mind.

My sisters visited together, bringing photos of our childhood and reminding me of happy memories from our life in the palace.

They spoke of the charity work we had planned together, the travels we would never take, the bond we had shared since birth.

They begged me to think of them, to consider how my death would affect their own marriage prospects, to remember my responsibilities as the eldest daughter.

When I remained firm in my faith, they left in tears and I never saw them again.

The religious authorities began their systematic torture in the second week of my imprisonment.

Islamic clerics would arrive daily with thick volumes of Quranic commentary, forcing me to listen to hours of recitation while chained to the cell wall.

They brought scholars who specialized in debating Christians.

men who quoted hadith and Quranic verses designed to prove the corrupt corruption of biblical texts.

When theological arguments failed, they resorted to physical persuasion.

The beatings were methodical and prolonged.

They would strike my feet with wooden rods until I could barely stand, then demand that I perform Islamic prayers.

When I refused, they would beat my back with leather straps while reciting verses about Allah’s judgment upon apostates.

During one session, they brought a brazier of hot coals and threatened to brand my forehead with Islamic symbols unless I recanted my Christian faith.

Sleep deprivation became their favorite psychological tool.

They would wake me every hour throughout the night demanding that I recite the shahada, the Islamic declarations of faith.

When I instead quoted Bible verses or proclaimed my love for Jesus, they would force me to stand in painful positions for hours.

This continued for weeks until I was hallucinating from exhaustion.

But even in my delirium, I could not bring myself to deny the Savior who had rescued my soul.

Ask yourself, where does such peace come from except from God? Despite the torture and torment, I experienced supernatural strength that defied human explanation.

In my darkest moments, when the pain seemed unbearable and the temptation to recant grew strongest, Jesus would appear to me in visions more real than the concrete walls around me.

He would show me his own scars, reminding me that he had suffered far worse for my salvation, and his presence would fill the cell with light that made the guard’s torches seem like dying embers.

Angels sang worship songs in my cell during the long nights.

I know how this sounds to rational minds, but I heard heavenly voices harmonizing in melodies more beautiful than any earthly music.

These celestial concerts would last for hours, drowning out the guard’s taunts and filling my heart with joy that transcended my circumstances.

Sometimes I would join in singing praises to Jesus until my voice gave out much to the confusion and anger of my capttors.

The formal trial took place in October 2019 before a panel of Islamic judges in the royal court.

I was dragged before them in chains, my hair unckempt and my prison clothes hanging loosely on my un undernourished frame.

The charges were read in classical Arabic.

Apostasy from Islam, blasphemy against Allah and the prophet, destruction of holy property, and corruption of public morals.

Each charge carried the death penalty under Islamic law.

They offered me legal counsel, but the appointed lawyer immediately demanded that I plead insanity, claiming that no rational person would abandon Islam for Christianity.

When I refused this defense and instead used my opportunity to publicly declare my faith in Jesus Christ before the assembled court, the judges were visibly shaken.

Some had known me since childhood, had watched me grow up as a model Muslim princess, and my transformation was incomprehensible to them.

The verdict was swift and unanimous.

Death by beheading for apostasy and blasphemy.

The execution date was set for November 15th, 2019, exactly one month away.

As the sentence was read, I felt a supernatural peace settle over me like a warm blanket.

I was going to die, but I had never been more alive.

My earthly life was ending, but my eternal life with Jesus was about to begin in fullness.

The transfer to death row in Riyad’s central prison marked the beginning of my final month on Earth.

The conditions were even worse than the palace dungeon with multiple prisoners crammed into cells designed for one.

The other condemned women looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and horror, unable to understand why someone would choose death over simply recanting religious beliefs.

My father made one final visit during my last week.

He had aged years in the two months since my arrest, and his eyes held a grief that cut through my heart.

His final words to me were delivered with quiet finality.

You were never my daughter.

As he walked away, I called out that I forgave him and would pray for his salvation.

But he never turned around.

I never saw any member of my family again.

Five days before my scheduled execution, something extraordinary began to happen that I could never have anticipated.

International human rights organizations that had never shown interest in Saudi internal affairs suddenly began reporting on my case with unprecedented urgency.

Somehow, despite the kingdom’s strict media controls, news of the Saudi princess, who had converted to Christianity and faced execution was spreading across global news networks faster than wildfire.

God was orchestrating events I couldn’t see from myself.

Later, I would learn that the Bible I had found belonged to a Filipino construction worker named Miguel, who was part of an underground Christian network operating throughout the Middle East.

When he realized his Bible was missing from its hiding place, he began investigating and discovered that a member of the royal family had been arrested for apostasy.

The Christian underground immediately activated their international contacts and within days my story was being told in churches, human rights offices and diplomatic circles around the world.

The first sign of divine intervention came when the chief executioner, a man who had carried out hundreds of beheadings over his 30-year career, suddenly fell critically ill with what doctors called a mysterious ailment.

His condition deteriorated so rapidly that he was hospitalized in intensive care, unable to speak or move his right arm.

Prison officials scrambled to find a replacement, but every qualified executioner in the region was either unavailable or refused the assignment, claiming various illnesses or family emergencies.

Meanwhile, the equipment at the execution facility began experiencing unprecedented malfunctions.

The ceremonial sword sharpened and blessed according to Islamic tradition developed hairline cracks that rendered it unusable.

The backup blade shattered completely during a routine test, sending metal fragments flying across the execution courtyard.

Even the wooden execution platform, which had been stable for decades, suddenly developed structural problems that made it unsafe for use.

3 days before my execution date, an unexpected sandstorm of unusual intensity engulfed Riad, grounding all transportation, and making it impossible for officials to travel to the prison.

The storm lasted 48 hours, far longer than meteorologists had predicted, and its timing seemed supernally precise.

During these same days, guards reported seeing strange lights around the prison at night.

Brilliant illuminations that couldn’t be explained by any natural phenomenon or electrical source.

Look inside your own heart.

Do you believe in impossible miracles? As these delays mounted, even the most hardened prison officials began whispering about supernatural intervention.

Some guards refused to work my section of death row, claiming they heard angelic voices singing hymns in languages they couldn’t identify.

Others reported that my cell seemed to glow with soft light during the darkest hours of night, though no electrical source could account for the illumination.

The rescue plan began to unfold through a series of events so perfectly timed, they could only have been orchestrated by divine providence.

A guard named Hassan, who had been working the prison for 15 years, approached my cell one evening with tears in his eyes.

In a whisper barely audible above the prison sounds, he told me he was a secret Christian who had been praying for an opportunity to serve God in this dark place.

My arrival and the miraculous delays had convinced him that God was calling him to act.

Hassan had been in contact with the same underground Christian network that had first leaked my story to international media.

For weeks, they had been planning a rescue operation that required precise timing and supernatural protection.

Safe houses had been established along a route leading to a private airfield where a small aircraft waited, registered to a humanitarian organization and cleared for international flight.

The complexity of the operation was staggering.

Forged documents had been prepared identifying me as a Pakistani refugee worker being transferred to a different facility.

A vehicle would be waiting at a predetermined location with drivers who were experienced in evading Saudi security forces.

The timing would coincide with the shift change during late night prayers when guard coverage was minimal and surveillance was reduced.

On the night of November 14th, 2019, at exactly 11:47 p.

m.

, Hassan unlocked my cell during his rounds.

His hands were shaking as he handed me servants clothing and a head covering that would disguise my identity.

The prison corridors that had seemed impossibly secure suddenly felt navigable, as if invisible hands were guiding our steps and blinding the eyes of potential observers.

We walked through three security checkpoints without challenge.

Guards who should have been alert and suspicious seemed unusually distracted or absent from their posts.

When we passed the main security station, the officer on duty was sound asleep at his desk, something Hassan said he had never witnessed in 15 years of employment.

The electronic locks that should have required special codes opened with simple key access and surveillance cameras that covered every hallway seemed to malf malfunction precisely when we passed beneath them.

The vehicle waiting outside the prison walls was a modest delivery truck driven by two men who spoke little but radiated the same peace I had come to associate with genuine Christian faith.

As we drove through the empty streets of Riyad, I felt a freedom I had never experienced even during my privileged palace life.

The physical liberation was secondary to the spiritual freedom that had begun months earlier when Jesus called my name.

But this moment represented the completion of God’s plan to rescue me from certain death.

The 4hour drive through the Saudi desert felt like a journey between two worlds.

Behind me lay everything I had ever known.

Family, culture, wealth, identity, and security.

Ahead lay complete uncertainty.

Exile from my homeland and separation from everyone I loved.

Yet my heart was filled with joy rather than sorrow, excitement rather than fear.

I was traveling toward the unknown in the company of the God who had proven his love by orchestrating impossible circumstances for my rescue.

The private airfield appeared in the pre-dawn darkness like an oasis in the desert.

The small aircraft waiting for me represented passage to freedom.

But more than that, it symbolized God’s faithfulness to complete what he had begun in my heart.

As the sun rose over the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant colors that reminded me of the light I had seen in my visions of Jesus, our plane lifted off Saudi soil.

I had lost everything earthly but gained everything eternal.

As I watched my homeland disappear beneath the clouds, I knew I would probably never see those familiar landscapes again, never embraced my family members, never walk through the palace corridors where I had spent my entire life.

But the loss felt like shedding old clothes that no longer fit, making room for the new identity Jesus had given me as his beloved daughter.

Crossing into international airspace felt like crossing from death into life.

The moment the pilot announced we had left Saudi territory, I fell to my knees in the aircraft aisle and wept tears of gratitude that seemed to come from the deepest places of my soul.

God had not only saved me spiritually through the cross of Christ, but he had delivered me physically through a rescue so miraculous it defied human explanation.

Freedom at last was more than just physical liberation from prison and execution.

It was the completion of a spiritual journey that had begun with a hidden Bible and culminated in supernatural deliverance.

As I prayed my first prayer as a free Christian woman, I knew my real life was just beginning.

The plane touched down in Frankfurt, Germany on November 16th, 2019.

And as I walked down the aircraft steps onto foreign soil, I felt like I was stepping into a completely new existence.

Representatives from the International Christian Refugee Organization were waiting for me with warm smiles and tears in their eyes.

They had been praying for my safe arrival for weeks.

And seeing God’s miraculous deliverance firsthand moved them to worship right there on the tarmac.

One elderly woman named Martha embraced me and whispered, “Welcome home, sister.

” Jesus kept his promise to you.

The first Christian worship service I attended took place three days after my arrival in a small German church whose congregation had been following my story through p prayer chains across Europe.

As I walked through the doors of that simple sanctuary, I was overwhelmed by the freedom to worship Jesus openly without fear of persecution or death.

The bread and wine tasted like freedom itself when I took communion for the first time, understanding in a completely new way what it meant for Christ’s body to be broken and his blood to be shed for my salvation.

During the service, when the congregation sang Amazing Grace in German, I wept throughout the entire song.

The words, “Even in a language I was still learning, spoke directly to my experience.

I once was lost but now am found.

Was blind but now I see.

Every verse described my journey from the spiritual darkness of my palace life to the brilliant light of knowing Jesus as my personal savior.

The grace that had found me in that hidden Bible, sustained me through persecution, and delivered me from execution was the same grace being celebrated in this room full of believers who welcomed me as family.

My public baptism ceremony took place one month after my arrival in a church that had been praying for persecuted Christians in Saudi Arabia for over a decade.

As I was lowered into the baptismal waters, I felt like all the shame and fear from my past life was being washed away forever.

Rising from those waters represented more than just symbolic burial and resurrection with Christ.

It was the public declaration of my new identity as a daughter of the King of Kings.

No longer bound by earthly royal titles or family expectations, God saved me not just for myself, but to save others.

Within 6 months of my arrival in Germany, I began sharing my testimony at churches across Europe.

The response was overwhelming as believers heard firsthand how God was moving in the Muslim world.

How he was calling people to himself even from the most unlikely places and how he was willing to perform miracles to protect those who chose to follow him despite the ultimate cost.

My first speaking engagement was at a large church in Berlin where over 2,000 people gathered to hear my story.

As I stood before that crowd, I remembered the palace lectures where I had been displayed as an example of Islamic virtue and I marveled at how God had transformed my platform.

Instead of representing the success of Saudi religious culture, I was now proclaiming the superiority of Christ’s love over any earthly religion or political system.

The ministry expanded beyond Europe as invitations came from churches in America, Australia, and other countries with significant Chris Christian populations.

Each testimony I shared seemed to impact listeners in profound ways, encouraging believers to count the cost of disciplehip while challenging comfortable Christians to consider what they would be willing to sacrifice for their faith.

Many reported that my story helped them appreciate the religious freedom they had taken for granted.

Working with organizations that rescued persecuted Christians became my primary calling.

I joined the board of directors for several international ministries using my unique background to help develop strategies for reaching Muslims with the gospel and supporting converts who face persecution.

My experience navigating underground networks and understanding Islamic law proved invaluable in planning rescue operations for other believers facing execution or imprisonment, counseling other Muslim converts became one of the most rewarding aspects of my new life.

Women from across the Middle East would seek me out, sharing their own stories of secret faith, family persecution, and spiritual struggle.

Many had found Bibles in similar circumstances to my own experience, and hearing how God had delivered me gave them hope that he would provide a way for them as well.

Some were facing immediate danger while others were wrestling with whether to make their faith public despite knowing the consequences.

I am more royal now as a daughter of the King of Kings than I ever was as a Saudi princess.

The inheritance I have in Christ far surpasses any earthly wealth or privilege I possessed in the palace.

My citizenship in heaven gives me an identity that no human government can revoke.

And my relationship with Jesus provides security that no earthly protection could match.

In 2021, God blessed me with marriage to David, a fellow refugee who had fled persecution in Iran.

After converting from Islam to Christianity, our wedding took place in the same German church where I had been baptized.

Surrounded by believers who had become our spiritual family, David understood my journey in ways that no one who had not experienced similar persecution could comprehend.

And together we established a home where Christ is honored above any cultural tradition tradition or religious heritage.

We began leading Bible studies specifically designed for former Muslim women who were adjusting to Christian faith and western culture.

These gatherings became safe spaces where women could ask questions about biblical teachings that seemed to contradict their Islamic upbringing, work through guilt about leaving their families behind and learned to embrace their new identity in Christ.

Many of these women had suffered traumatic persecution and sharing my own experience helped them process their pain while holding on to hope.

Raising our children in Christian faith and freedom has been one of our greatest joys.

Our daughter Sarah, but born in 2022, and our son Joshua, born in 2024, will grow up knowing Jesus as their savior from their ear earliest memories, never experiencing the spiritual emptiness and religious bondage that characterized my own childhood.

When I watch them pray with innocent faith or hear them sing worship songs, I am reminded daily of the generational impact of my decision to follow Christ despite the cost.

The reality of never being able to return to Saudi Arabia remains painful.

I have not spoken to any member of my biological family since my father’s final visit to my prison cell, and I do not know if they are alive or dead, healthy or suffering.

The love I have for them has not diminished despite their rejection.

And I pray daily for their salvation, believing that the same God who reached me in my palace prison can reach them wherever they are.

I lost a kingdom on earth but gained the kingdom of heaven.

What is God asking you to surrender today for his glory? Perhaps you are holding on to relationships, reputation, financial security or cultural acceptance that God is calling you to release for the sake of following Christ more fully.

My story demonstrates that no sacrifice is too great when compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Jesus as Lord and Savior.

If a Saudi princess can give up everything for Jesus, what excuse do you have for holding back areas of your life from complete surrender? God is not asking everyone to face martyrdom or exile.

But he is calling every believer to count the cost of disciplehip and choose Christ above a competing loyalties.

Today can be the day your life changes forever if you will ask Jesus into your heart as your Lord and Savior.

Jesus didn’t just intervene to save my life.

He interveneed to save my soul.

And he wants to do the same for you.

Don’t wait until tomorrow to surrender.

Surrender your life completely to him because eternity is too important to delay and you never know when your opportunity might pass forever.

say.