My name is Alim.

I am 52 years old.

And on August 10th, 2017, my life changed forever in ways I never could have imagined.

That was the day my family council informed me I would be required to marry my own 19-year-old daughter to preserve our royal bloodline.

In that moment, everything I thought I knew about faith, duty, and righteousness crumbled beneath me.

For 45 years, I lived what I believe was the perfect Muslim life.

Every morning before dawn, I would rise for faj prayer, washing myself according to the precise rituals I had learned as a child.

The cold marble floors of my private prayer chamber in the palace became as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

Five times each day without fail, I would prostrate myself before Allah, reciting verses from the Quran that I had memorized word for word in classical Arabic.

My devotion went far beyond mere obligation.

I had committed to memory over half of the Quran, spending countless hours with Islamic scholars who praised my dedication and understanding of the faith.

Three times in my life, I I had made the pilgrimage to Mecca.

Each journey deepening what I believed was my relationship with Allah.

I led my household in religious observances, ensuring that my seven children understood their Islamic heritage and duties.

Every decision I made from business dealings to family matters, I filtered through what I understood to be Islamic principles.

I genuinely believed I was living exactly as Allah intended.

The wealth and privilege of being a third generation Saudi prince never corrupted my faith, or so I thought.

Instead, I saw my royal position as a responsibility to model righteousness for others.

My palace became known for its strict adherence to Islamic law, and religious leaders from across the kingdom would visit to discuss matters of faith and governance.

Among my seven children, my youngest daughter held a special place in my heart.

She was 19, intelligent beyond her years, with eyes that sparkled when she discussed philosophy and literature.

I had personally overseen much of her education, teaching her Arabic poetry and the deeper meanings behind Quranic verses.

She would sit for hours in my study asking thoughtful questions about faith and life that revealed a seeking heart.

Our relationship was built on mutual respect and genuine affection.

I was not just her father.

I was her protector, her guide and and her strongest advocate within our traditional family structure.

For over two centuries, our royal lineage had maintained what the elders called purity of bloodline through carefully arranged marriages, often within the extended family.

I know this history intellectually, but it had always seemed like ancient practice, something from a different era that surely would not touch my immediate family.

The previous generation had moved away from such arrangements, and I assumed this tradition had quietly died out.

On that suffocating August afternoon, the family council gathered in the grand hall of our ancestral palace.

12 elder relatives sat in a semicircle, their faces grave and determined.

The head of our family, my uncle, who was then 78 years old, spoke with the authority of someone who had never been questioned in his life.

He explained that recent political pressures and the need to consolidate power within our branch of the royal family had made it necessary to return to the old ways.

Your daughter, he said, looking directly at me, represents the purest continuation of our bloodline.

The council has decided that she will marry within the family to ensure our legacy remains untainted.

Then came the words that still echo in my nightmares.

You will take her as your wife within 30 days.

The room fell silent except for the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I felt as though I had been struck by lightning, my mind unable to process what I had just heard.

This was not a request or a suggestion.

This was a decree from the family council, backed by centuries of tradition and the full weight of our clan’s authority.

When I finally found my voice to object to explain that such an arrangement felt fundamentally wrong, the response was swift and cold.

The elders reminded me of my duty to family, to tradition, and to the preservation of our royal heritage.

They cited Islamic history, pointing to marriages within families that had been sanctioned by religious authorities.

They spoke of political necessity and the importance of keeping our wealth and influence concentrated.

I rushed to find my daughter, dreading the conversation I would have to have with her.

When I told her what the council had decided, the look of horror in her eyes will haunt me forever.

She did not cry or scream.

Instead, she simply stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and betrayal that cut deeper than any blade.

The trust that had taken 19 years to be crumbled in a single moment.

Over the following days, I desperately tried to find alternatives within our Islamic framework.

I consulted with religious scholars seeking any interpretation of Islamic law that would support my resistance to this arrangement.

The responses I received were frustratingly mixed.

Some scholars agreed that the marriage was troubling while others insisted that family authority and the preservation of lineage took precedence over personal feelings.

Ask yourself this question.

When tradition conflicts with your conscience, which voice do you follow? I found myself caught between two authorities I had always respected.

My family’s centuries old customs and my own moral intuition that this arrangement was fundamentally wrong.

The pressure from family members intensified daily.

Relatives who had once treated me with respect now spoke to me with barely concealed contempt for my resistance.

They questioned my loyalty, my understanding of family duty and even my faith.

The threats became more explicit, refused this marriage and face complete ostracism from the family, loss of financial support and exile from the only life I had ever known.

Meanwhile, my daughter’s emotional state deteriorated rapidly.

The vibrant young woman who had once filled my study with laughter, and thoughtful questions became withdrawn and frightened.

She barely spoke, barely ate, and I could see the light dimming in her eyes day by day.

Every glance between us carried the weight of an impossible situation that neither of us knew how to escape.

The family pressure became relentless and suffocating.

Every morning brought a parade of relatives to my palace.

Each one armed with arguments, threats, and manipulations designed to break down my resistance.

My eldest brother would arrive before the morning prayer, sitting in my study with maps of family properties spread across my desk, explaining in excruciating detail what I would lose if I continued to defy the council’s decision.

Cousins who had been my closest confidants turned cold, speaking to me as though I had already betrayed everything our family stood for.

The daily meetings became psychological warfare.

They would remind me of every favor the family had ever granted me, every business opportunity that had come through family connections, every privilege I had enjoyed as a prince.

They painted vivid pictures of disgrace and poverty describing how I would become a pariah not just within our clan but throughout Saudi society.

Your daughter will suffer most of all.

They would say knowing exactly how to twist the knife.

She will be unmarriageable to anyone respectable, destined for a life of shame because of your selfishness.

My daughter’s suffering became more visible each day.

The confident young woman who had once debated theology with visiting scholars now flinched whenever footsteps approached her room.

She stopped eating regular meals, surviving on small portions that she would pick at while staring blankly at her plate.

Her beautiful dark hair, which she had always worn long and carefully braided, became unckempt and lifeless.

Most heartbreaking of all, she stopped coming to my study for our evening conversations.

The tradition that had been the highlight of my days for years.

I watched her trust in me crumble piece by piece.

She had always looked to me as her protector, the one person in her life who would shield her from harm and injustice.

Now she saw me as complicit in the very system that was destroying her future.

The few times we spoke, her voice carried a hollow quality, as though she was speaking to me from across a vast distance.

When I tried to reassure her that I was fighting for her, she would nod politely, but her eyes held no hope.

My desperate attempts to find solutions within the Islamic system led me down increasingly futile paths.

I traveled to meet with progressive Islamic scholars in different cities, men known for their modern interpretations of religious law.

Some were sympathetic but ultimately powerless against the weight of family authority in Saudi culture.

Others surprised me with their support for arranged marriages within families, citing historical precedents and arguing that family wisdom should override individual preferences.

I consulted with lawyers who specialized in Islamic family law, hoping to find some legal precedent that would protect my daughter.

The conversations were exercises in frustration.

Saudi law strongly favors family authority in marriage decisions, especially when the family holds significant political and economic power.

The lawyers spoke in careful measured tones about the complexities of challenging royal family decisions, making it clear that any legal action would be both expensive and likely unsuccessful.

I exhausted every option my faith and culture could provide.

I reached out to distant relatives in other countries, hoping to find family members who might intervene on our behalf.

I offered substantial financial compensation to the family council in exchange for releasing my daughter from this arrangement.

I even proposed alternative marriage matches within the extended family that would satisfy their concerns about bloodline purity while sparing my daughter from this horror.

Every door I tried to open slammed shut in my face.

The family council had made their decision with the full weight of tradition behind them and they viewed my resistance not as paternal concern but as dangerous rebellion against the natural order.

They began to question not just my loyalty but my sanity suggesting that western influences had corrupted my understanding of proper family relationships.

The threats escalated from financial consequences to personal safety.

Family members who had once embraced me at gatherings now spoke in veiled terms about accidents that could befall those who brought dishonor to the clan.

They reminded me of relatives who had been quietly eliminated from family records for lesser offenses.

Their names never spoken again in family circles.

The message was unmistakable.

Comply or face complete eraser from the only identity I had ever known.

Sleep became impossible.

I would lie in my bed staring at the ornate ceiling of my chamber.

My mind racing through scenarios and possibilities that all led to dead ends.

The five daily prayers that had once brought me peace now felt like empty rituals.

I would prostrate myself on the prayer rock, reciting familiar verses, but the words felt hollow and meaningless.

My duas became desperate bleedings that seemed to disappear into silence.

Night terrors began to plague what little sleep I could find.

I would dream of the wedding ceremony, seeing my daughter dressed in traditional bridal attire with tears streaming down her face.

I would wake up gasping, my body covered in sweat.

The images so vivid that it would take several minutes to convince myself they were not real.

The dreams became more frequent and more detailed, always ending with my daughter’s accusing eyes asking why I had failed to protect her.

The final ultimatum came on August 8th, exactly 2 days before what would become the most important night of my life.

The family council gathered once more in the Grand Hall, but this time their patience had reached his end.

My uncle, the family patriarch, stood before me with the authority of generations of royal bloodline behind him.

48 hours, he announced.

The preparations have already begun, and the ceremony will proceed with or without your cooperation.

I looked around the room at faces that had once shown me respect and affection, seeing only cold determination to preserve their version of family honor.

They had made arrangements for the marriage contract to be signed, for the religious ceremony to be conducted by a carefully selected imam, and for the celebration to announce this union to other royal families.

My daughter’s fate was sealed unless something miraculous intervened.

That night, as I paced the marble floors of my palace, I realized I was about to lose everything that mattered.

My daughter’s respect, my own sense of righteousness, and any claim to moral authority I had ever possessed would all vanish in 48 hours.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, have you ever felt completely abandoned by the very God you have served faithfully for your entire life? At 3:00 in the morning on August 9th, 2017, I found myself in my private prayer chamber.

But this time was different from the thousands of times I had knelt there before.

The familiar Persian rug beneath my knees felt foreign, and the ornate miab that had always pointed me toward Mecca seemed to mock my desperation.

I had spent the previous 6 hours cycling through every Islamic prayer I knew, reciting verses from the Quran, performing ritualistic supplications that had been my spiritual foundation for 45 years.

Nothing had brought relief or clarity.

My body was exhausted from weeks of sleepless nights, but my mind raced with the terrible countdown that now had fewer than 20 hours remaining.

In less than a day, I would either participate in destroying my daughter’s life or face complete destruction of everything I had ever known.

The weight of this impossible choice pressed down on me like a physical force, making it difficult to breathe normally.

I had exhausted all Islamic prayers and supplications.

The beautiful Arabic phrases that had once brought me comfort now felt like empty echoes in a vast uncaring universe.

I had begged Allah for guidance, for intervention, for any sign that would show me a righteous path forward.

The silence in response had become deafening, and I began to wonder if my decades of faithful devotion had been nothing more than elaborate selfdeception.

In this moment of absolute spiritual bankruptcy, my mind wandered to conversations I had overheard throughout my life.

As a prince, I had employed many servants from different backgrounds, including Christians from Lebanon, Egypt, and the Philippines.

During casual conversations, some had mentioned their faith in Jesus, speaking with a warmth and personal connection that had always puzzled me.

They talked about Jesus not as a distant prophet but as someone who actively intervened in their daily lives, someone who heard their prayers and responded with tangible help.

One conversation in particular surfaced from my memory.

My personal driver, a Lebanese Christian named Samir, had once told me about praying to Jesus when his daughter was dying from a rare illness.

He described crying out to Jesus in desperation when all medical treatments had failed.

And within days, the doctors discovered a new treatment that completely healed his child.

Samir had spoken about Jesus with absolute certainty as though he was discussing a close friend who had personally saved his family.

These memories felt like a lifeline in my drowning desperation.

In my absolute desperation, I found myself doing something boothing unthinkable for a devout Muslim prince.

I lifted my hands not toward Mecca but simply upward and began to speak words I never imagined would pass my lips.

Jesus, if you are real, if you are the way some people say you are, I need you to hear me now.

The words felt strange and foreign, as though I was speaking a language I had never learned but somehow understood.

I continued, my voice growing stronger despite my trembling body.

I do not know how to pray to you, but I have nowhere else to turn.

My family wants me to marry my own daughter, and I know this is wrong, but I have no power to stop it.

The moment I spoke Jesus’ name, something shifted in the atmosphere of the room.

The oppressive weight that had been crushing my chest for weeks began to lift slightly, as though an invisible burden was being shared by someone else.

I felt compelled to continue speaking, pouring out the details of my impossible situation to this Jesus I barely understood.

I confessed everything, the family pressure, the threats, my daughter’s suffering, my own moral confusion, and the complete failure of my Islamic faith to provide any solution or comfort.

I told Jesus about the countdown to the ceremony.

About my daughter’s holo eyes and broken spirit, about my own terror at becoming the agent of her destruction.

Please, I begged.

If you have the power that people claim you have, intervene in this situation.

Protect my daughter.

Show me a way out of this nightmare.

The response was immediate and unmistakable.

A peace unlike anything I had ever experienced in 45 years of Islamic worship began to flood the prayer chamber.

This was not the quiet resignation I had sometimes achieved through meditation, nor the temporary relief that came from completing religious duties.

This was a living, breathing piece that seemed to wrap around me like warm light, penetrating every cell of my body and quieting the chaos in my mind.

With this peace came a clear, wordless impression that filled my consciousness with absolute certainty.

This marriage will not happen.

The conviction was so strong and clear that it felt like someone speaking directly into my thoughts.

I knew without any logical explanation that Jesus had heard my prayer and was already moving to resolve this impossible situation.

I continued praying through the night and with each passing hour, my confidence in Jesus’s power and love grew stronger.

The fear that had paralyzed me for weeks was being replaced by supernatural courage I could not explain.

I found myself speaking to Jesus as though I had known him all my life, sharing not just my immediate crisis, but deeper longings and questions I had carried for years.

During those hours of prayer, I began to see visions of my daughter’s future that filled me with hope instead of horror.

I saw her free from this burden, pursuing her own dreams and choices, surrounded by people who loved and respected her for who she truly was.

I saw myself not as a failed father who could not protect his child, but as someone who had found the strength to stand against injustice because of this Jesus who was making himself known to me.

As dawn approached, bringing the final day before the scheduled ceremony, I experienced a revelation that changed everything I thought I understood about faith and salvation.

I realized that Jesus hadn’t just heard my prayer.

He had been pursuing us all along.

This crisis, as a terrible as it was, had been the very thing that brought me to the end of myself and opened my heart to a savior.

I had never known I needed.

For the first time in weeks, I felt hope instead of horror.

I didn’t yet understand how Jesus would intervene, but I knew with absolute certainty that he would.

The countdown to the ceremony continued, but I was no longer counting down to disaster.

I was counting down to a miracle.

At dawn on August 10th, 2017, as the first call to prayer echoed across the palace grounds, my phone rang with a sound that would herald the beginning of the impossible.

The caller was my youngest brother, Hassan, who had been traveling in Europe for the past month and was completely unaware of the family council’s decision.

His voice carried an urgency that immediately captured my attention.

And what he told me in that conversation still gives me chills when I remember it.

Hassan had received what he described as the most vivid dream of his life during his flight back to Saudi Arabia.

In this dream, he saw our daughter weeping in a wedding dress and the voice he could not identify but somehow trusted completely told him that he must intervene to prevent a terrible injustice.

The voice in his dream had given him specific instructions about legal documents he needed to retrieve from our grandfather’s archives.

Documents that had been sealed for over 50 years.

These documents contained a provision written by our greatgrandfather that gave any direct descendant the right to appeal family marriage decisions to an international Islamic council.

If the marriage violated the individual’s fundamental human dignity, Hassan had landed at 4 in the morning and immediately driven to the old palace archives to verify what his dream had shown him.

The documents were exactly where the dream had indicated, and the legal language was precisely as he had seen it in his sleep.

Jesus was moving in ways I couldn’t have orchestrated, and the timing was so perfect, it could only be described as miraculous.

Hassan’s call came exactly 12 hours before the scheduled ceremony, giving us just enough time to invoke this ancient family provision that no one in our generation even knew existed.

The legal precedent was ironclad, written by the very ancestor whose bloodline the current family council claimed to be protecting.

While I was receiving this first miraculous intervention, my daughter was experiencing her own encounter with Jesus in her room three floors above mine.

Later, she would tell me that at the exact moment I was praying to Jesus for the first time, she felt compelled to do something she had never done before.

Despite being raised in strict Islamic tradition, she found herself crying out to Jesus, begging him to save her from the forced marriage that would destroy her life.

Her prayer was simple but desperate.

Jesus, if you can hear me, please don’t let this happen to me.

I cannot marry my father.

I know this is wrong, and I need someone to help me who is stronger than my family.

She described feeling an immediate sense of protection, as though invisible arms had wrapped around her, and a gentle voice had whispered that she was loved and would be kept safe.

When I saw her that morning, I knew Jesus had visited her, too.

The hollow despair that had clouded her eyes for weeks was replaced by something I hadn’t seen since this nightmare began.

Hope.

She looked at me with an expression of wonder and said, “Something happened to me last night, father.

I dreamed about someone who said he would protect me, and I believe him.

” We both knew without speaking the details that we had encountered the same divine intervention.

The chain of miraculous events that followed Hassan’s phone call defied every natural explanation.

Within hours, we discovered that the International Islamic Council referenced in the ancient documents was still active and had jurisdiction over disputes involving royal family marriage decisions.

Even more remarkably, the council was scheduled to convene that very week in Geneva, and they had an emergency session procedure for cases involving immediate harm to family members.

An ally emerged from the most unexpected source when my sister, who had been silent throughout the entire crisis, suddenly appeared at my palace with a team of international lawyers.

She revealed that she had been secretly working with human rights organizations for months, documenting cases of forced marriage within royal families.

She had connections with European courts and international legal advocates who were prepared to intervene immediately if we were willing to seek asylum outside Saudi Arabia.

Financial resources materialized through a mysterious benefactor who my sister would only describe as someone who had escaped a similar situation years earlier and now dedicated their wealth to helping others find freedom.

This person had arranged for immediate access to funds, temporary housing in a safe location, and legal representation that would protect us from family retaliation.

The benefactor’s identity remained anonymous, but their generosity was comprehensive and immediate.

Every obstacle was being removed by an invisible hand, and the timing of each intervention was so precise that it could only be explained as supernatural coordination.

The ancient legal documents, Hassan’s perfectly timed dream and return from Europe, my daughter’s simultaneous spiritual experience, my sister’s secret preparations, and the mysterious benefactors resources all came together in a way that no human planning could have achieved.

The most remarkable moment came when we received word that the family council’s own Imam, the religious leader they had selected to perform the marriage ceremony, had experienced what he described as a crisis of conscience during his morning prayers.

He called my uncle to withdraw from performing the ceremony, stating that he had received clear spiritual guidance that the marriage should not proceed.

This Imam had never shown any previous reluctance about family decisions and had been specifically chosen for his compliance with council wishes.

The escape itself unfolded with a smoothness that still amazes me.

Within 18 hours of Hassan’s initial phone call, we were on a private aircraft provided by the mysterious benefactor, flying toward a destination where we would be safe from family retaliation.

The legal papers invoking our greatgrandfather’s provision had been properly filed, creating a protective legal barrier while we sought permanent resolution through international channels.

Jesus didn’t just stop the marriage.

He orchestrated our complete freedom.

As our plane lifted off from Saudi soil, my daughter and I held hands and offered our first formal prayers as Christians.

We confessed our sins, acknowledged Jesus as our savior, and thanked him for the miraculous intervention that had saved us both from a fate worse than death.

We went to sleep that night as desperate Muslims and woke up as beloved children of God.

The transformation was complete, sudden, and absolutely life-changing in ways we were only beginning to understand.

The immediate aftermath of our escape brought changes so radical that we felt like we were living in a completely different world.

Within 24 hours, we went from inhabiting a palace with dozens of servants and unlimited luxury to sharing a modest two-bedroom apartment in a Christian safe house in Geneva.

The marble floors and golden fixtures were replaced by simple wooden furniture and basic necessities, but every comfort we lost was replaced by something infinitely more valuable.

The peace that comes from knowing you are exactly where God wants you to be.

Our daily routines transformed completely overnight.

Instead of the five Islamic prayers that had structured my days for 45 years, my daughter and I began each morning reading from a Bible that had been placed in our apartment.

The Christian family that managed the safe house, an elderly Swiss couple named Peter and Maria, patiently taught us how to pray to Jesus in our own words rather than reciting memorized verses in Arabic.

Those first prayers felt awkward and uncertain, like learning to walk again, but they carried the intimacy and personal connection that I had never experienced in Islamic worship.

The contrast between my old religious practices and this new relationship with Jesus was startling.

Islam had taught me to serve Allah through rigid adherence to rules, rituals, and traditions.

Always striving to earn righteousness through perfect performance.

Jesus taught me that God wanted to love me unconditionally, that salvation was a gift rather than an achievement, and that my relationship with him could be personal and conversational rather than formal and distant.

My daughter’s transformation was even more dramatic than my own.

The frightened, withdrawn young woman who had barely spoken for weeks began to blossom again under the gentle care of our Christian hosts.

Maria would spend hours with her, teaching her about Jesus love for women and his desire to see them flourish as individuals rather than merely fulfill family obligations.

For the first time in her life, my daughter was encouraged to think about her own dreams, talents, and calling.

Rather than simply preparing to serve whatever role her family assigned to her, Peter became like a spiritual father to both of us, guiding us through the basics of Christian faith with patience and wisdom.

He explained concepts like grace, forgiveness, and personal relationship with God that were completely foreign to our Islamic background.

Most importantly, he helped us understand that our worth was not determined by our family heritage, our social status, or our perfect adherence to religious rules, but simply by God’s love for us as his children.

Our father-daughter relationship which had been strained to the breaking point by the forces marriage crisis began to heal in beautiful and unexpected ways.

Free from the oppressive weight of family expectations and cultural traditions.

We could finally relate to each other as individuals rather than as prince and princess playing predetermined roles.

We spent hours talking about our fears, our hopes, and our growing understanding of what it meant to follow Jesus together.

The healing process was not immediate or simple.

My daughter carried deep trauma from the months of knowing she was going to be forced into marriage with her own father.

and she struggled with nightmares, anxiety, and moments of overwhelming grief for the life and family we had left behind.

But Jesus provided exactly what she needed for healing through the Christian counselors and support network that surrounded us.

Professional therapists who specialized in helping survivors of family abuse worked with her and slowly the light began to return to her eyes.

Learning to live without the palace luxuries required practical adjustments that tested our faith in unexpected ways.

I had never prepared a meal, operated a washing machine, or managed a household budget.

My daughter had been raised with servants attending to every need, and we both had to learn basic life skills that most people take for granted.

Yet, these humble tasks became opportunities to experience Jesus’s presence in ordinary moments, finding joy in simple accomplishments and gratitude for basic provisions.

The Christian community that embraced us included other former Muslims who had converted to Christianity and their stories gave us hope and practical guidance for navigating our new faith.

A Pakistani family who had fled religious persecution helped us understand how to study the Bible coming from an Islamic background.

An Iranian woman who had converted years earlier became like an older sister to my daughter, showing her how to build an identity based on God’s love rather than family approval.

Financial challenges emerged quickly as we learned to live on the modest resources provided by our benefactor rather than unlimited royal wealth.

I had to find legitimate employment for the first time in my life, eventually working as a translator and cultural consultant for international aid organizations.

The work was meaningful but humbling, requiring me to earn respect through competence rather than commanding it through royal birthright.

Every paycheck became a reminder of Jesus’s faithfulness in providing for our needs.

Ongoing threats from our former family members created constant tension and the need for careful security measures.

Death threats arrived regularly through various channels and we had to change our location twice during the first year for safety reasons.

Yet even these dangers became opportunities to see Jesus’s protection in action.

Several times we received advanced warning of planned attacks through sources we could only describe as miraculous and the international legal protections continued to hold despite intense pressure from Saudi authorities.

The most profound change was discovering our calling to ministry.

Within six months of our escape, we share we began sharing our testimony with other Muslim families facing similar crisis.

My daughter found particular passion in helping young Muslim women who were trapped in abusive family situations.

Using her own experience to offer hope and practical guidance for finding freedom, we learned that Jesus had not only saved us for our own sake, but to become instruments of his rescue for others.

So I’m asking you just as a father who found Jesus in the most impossible circumstances would ask what situation in your life seems too complex, too dangerous or too hopeless for God to resolve? Every trial we faced became an opportunity to see Jesus’s faithfulness.

And every challenge revealed new dimensions of his love and power that we never could have discovered in the comfort of our former life.

5 years have passed since that miraculous night when Jesus intervened in our impossible situation.

And I can honestly say that every day has been a testament to his continued faithfulness in our lives.

As I sit here today, no longer Prince Alm, but simply Aalem, a follower of Jesus Christ, I marvel at the beautiful life God has built from the ashes of what we lost.

My daughter, now 24, is married to a godly Christian man named David, who loves her with the patient, sacrificial love that reflects Jesus’s heart for his bride, the church.

Their wedding day was one of the most powerful experiences of my life, watching my daughter walk down the aisle, not as a victim of forced marriage, but as a radiant bride, choosing her own future.

David had pursued her with respect, patience, and genuine care for her healing and growth.

Their courtship lasted two years, giving her time to recover from trauma and discover her own identity in Christ.

When she said yes to his proposal, it was with joy and confidence rather than resignation and fear.

Standing in that small church in Geneva, watching her exchange vows freely given rather than coerced, I understood in a deeper way how Jesus redeems even our most broken experiences.

We lost a kingdom on earth but gained citizenship in heaven.

And the exchange has proven to be infinitely worthwhile.

The palace, the wealth, the royal title, and the social status that once defined my entire identity now seem like elaborate costumes from a play I no longer remember.

The simple apartment where we now live, the modest income from my work, and the humble lifestyle we have embraced feel more authentic and satisfying than anything I experience as a prince.

My daughter is now expecting her first child and the joy of knowing that my grandchild will grow up in freedom.

Knowing Jesus from birth and never experiencing the oppressive weight of royal expectations brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.

This child will learn about love rather than duty, grace rather than performance, and the beautiful reality that their worth comes from being God’s beloved child rather than from family bloodline or social status.

The ministry that emerged from our testimony has grown far beyond anything we initially imagined.

Through our story, we have connected with dozens of other Saudi families who found themselves trapped in similar impossible situations.

Some were facing forced marriages.

Others were dealing with honor violence or religious persecution.

And many were simply seeking freedom to make their own choices about faith and life direction.

Jesus used our impossible situation to become the very thing that reached others drowning in religious bondage and family oppression.

An underground Christian network has developed throughout the Middle East, connecting former Muslims who have found freedom in Jesus Christ.

My daughter has become a key figure in supporting young women who are escaping abusive family situations, offering them not just practical help, but the hope of complete transformation through relationship with Jesus.

Her own healing journey has equipped her to guide others through the complex process of rebuilding identity and learning to trust again after betrayal by those who should have protected them.

What this experience taught me about Jesus goes far beyond anything I learned in 45 years of Islamic devotion.

His love transcends all cultural and religious barriers, reaching into the most impossible circumstances to rescue those who call upon his name.

No situation is too complex for his intervention, no family tradition too powerful for his authority, and no religious system too entrenched for his transforming power to overcome.

Jesus doesn’t just save individuals.

He saves families and transforms entire family systems.

The relationship between my daughter and me, which was nearly destroyed by the forced marriage crisis, has been redeemed and restored in ways that are more beautiful than anything we had before.

We now relate to each other not according to cultural roles and family hierarchies but as brother and sister in Christ.

Fellow pilgrimage companions on the journey of faith.

The impact of our testimony continues to ripple outward in ways we never anticipated.

Just last month, I received a message from a young Saudi man whose family wanted to force him into a marriage that would have destroyed his life.

He had heard our story through the underground network and found the courage to resist his family’s pressure by calling upon Jesus for intervention.

His escape was different from ours, but equally miraculous, and he now serves Jesus in a different country.

While helping other young men find freedom from similar bondages, our impossible situation became the very thing Jesus used to reach others, proving that he can transform any crisis into a testimony of his power and love.

The forced marriage that seemed like the end of everything good in our lives became the beginning of a ministry that has touched hundreds of people across multiple countries.

Every family that finds freedom through our story.

Every young woman who escapes forced marriage.

Every person who discovers Jesus through our testimony represents a victory that multiplies the original miracle.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself honestly, what tradition, pressure, or impossible situation has you trapped and feeling hopeless? What family expectation, cultural demand or religious obligation is crushing your spirit and destroying your peace? What circumstances seem so overwhelming that you cannot imagine any solution or escape? I want you to know that the same Jesus who intervened in our impossible situation can intervene in yours.

He is not limited by cultural barriers, family authority, religious traditions or human power structures.

He sees your pain, understands your desperation, and has the authority to change any situation when you call upon his name with genuine faith and surrender.

Don’t wait until you’re desperate like we were before you call on Jesus.

He is pursuing you right now, wanting to transform your impossible situation into a testimony of his love and power.

The crisis that seems like it will destroy you may actually be the very thing he uses to save you and equip you to help others find freedom.

Today, my daughter and I serve Jesus together.

Not as prince and princess bound by royal obligations, but as forgiven children of the King of Kings, free to love him and serve others according to his calling on our lives.

Our story continues to unfold and every chapter reveals new dimensions of his faithfulness and love that we never could have discovered without the crisis that brought us to the end of ourselves and into his arms.