My name is Aloudin and on June 7th, 2009, I was ordered by the Saudi religious court to execute my own sister by fire.

I was 29 years old, a devout Muslim prince who had never questioned Islamic law until that moment.

What happened next shattered everything I believed and uh led me to cry out to Jesus Christ in desperation.

This is the testimony of how Jesus saved both my sister and my soul from the flames.

I was born as the third son of Prince Abdullah, raised in the strictest Islamic tradition imaginable.

My father groomed me from age five to be a model of religious leadership for the kingdom.

While other princes played with toys, I memorized the Quranic verses and study hadith collections.

By age 15, I had completed the entire Quran in Arabic memorization three times over.

My earliest memories were not of childhood games or laughter, but of sitting cross-legged on ornate prayer rugs in our palace mosque, reciting verses I barely understood.

My father would sit beside me for hours correcting my pronunciation of classical Arabic and explaining the intricate meanings of Islamic Jewish prudence.

While my cousins attended birthday parties and played soccer, I spent my afternoons with Islamic tutors who taught me the complexities of Sharia law.

The palace library became my second home filled with thousands of volumes on Islamic theology, hadith commentary and religious history.

I would spend entire days reading works by medieval Islamic scholars, taking detailed notes that impressed even senior clerics.

My father would bring religious leaders from across the kingdom to test my knowledge, and I never failed to exceed their expectations.

By age 12, I was giving formal presentations on Islamic law to gatherings of adult scholars.

Five daily prayers were never enough for me.

I prayed eight times, fasted twice weekly.

I led prayer services at our palace mosque, giving sermons to hundreds of worshippers.

My bedroom walls were covered with Islamic calligraphy.

My library contained over 500 religious texts.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever been so devoted to your faith that questioning it seemed impossible? My devotion went far beyond what Islamic law required.

While most Muslims struggled to complete their five daily prayers, I added three additional prayer sessions that I created myself.

I would wake at 3:00 a.

m.

for extended worship sessions, often praying until sunrise while the rest of the palace slept.

My knees bore permanent callous from countless hours of prostration on prayer rugs.

During the holy month of Ramadan, when most Muslims fasted from sunrise to sunset, I would extend my fasting for days beyond the required period.

I memorized not just the Quran but entire collections of hadith that most Islamic scholars only studied in portions.

My father would beam with pride as visiting clerics praised my extraordinary dedication to Islamic learning and practice.

The servants in our palace would often find me in the early morning hours, sitting in the garden courtyard, reading religious texts by lamplight.

I carried prayer beats constantly, reciting the 99 names of Allah hundreds of times daily.

My personal library contained first edition manuscripts of Islamic texts that were considered priceless artifacts by religious museums worldwide.

My sister was born 2 years after me, the crown jewel of our family’s honor.

From childhood, we competed in religious knowledge, seeing who could recite more Quranic chapters.

She led women’s Quran study circles across our province, teaching hundred of girls.

Our father called us the twin lights of Islam because of our shared religious passion.

Where I was serious and studious, my sister brought joy and warmth to our religious education.

She had a gift for explaining complex Islamic concepts in ways that made them accessible to children and adults alike.

Her laughter would fill the palace corridors as she practiced reciting Quranic verses, turning our religious education into something beautiful rather than burdensome.

We would spend hours together in theological discussions that amazed our tutors.

While I focused on the legal and jurist prudential aspects of Islam, she gravitated toward the spiritual and mystical elements.

She could recite poetry from Islamic mystics with such emotion that grown men would weep.

Her understanding of Arabic grammar surpassed that of many male scholars despite the cultural limitations placed on women’s education.

Our father took tremendous pride in uh having two children who exemplified the Islamic devotion so perfectly.

He would bring us to religious conferences across the Middle East where we would demonstrate our knowledge to admiring crowds.

My sister and I became minor celebrities in Islamic academic circles, known for our unprecedented mastery of religious knowledge at such young ages.

By age 20, my sister had earned degrees in Islamic Jewish prudence and Arabic literature.

She could debate theological points with senior clerics and often won their respect.

Religious families sought her as daughter-in-law because of her reputation for piety.

She represented everything a Muslim woman should be.

Intelligent, devout, and modest.

Her academic achievements were extraordinary for any person, but revolutionary for a Saudi woman.

She had mastered not only the Quran and major hadith collections, but also the complex legal commentaries that formed the backbone of Islamic juristprudence.

Senior scholars from Al Azar University in Egypt would consult with her on difficult questions of Islamic law, treating her opinions with the respect typically reserved for male religious authorities.

Despite her incredible intellect, she maintained perfect modesty according to Islamic standards.

She never spoke directly to men outside our immediate family, communicated her scholarly insights through written correspondence, and always deferred to male religious authorities in public settings.

Her reputation for combining brilliant religious knowledge with impeccable Islamic behavior made her the most sought after marriage prospect in our region.

At 25, she married Hassan, son of the kingdom’s wealthiest textile merchant.

The wedding cost $12 million and was attended by royalty from across the Gulf.

Islamic protocols were followed perfectly.

Separate celebrations, modest dress, religious ceremonies.

Everyone praised the match as ideal, uniting religious devotion with commercial success.

The wedding was a spectacular display of Islamic tradition and Saudi wealth.

Three separate celebrations were held over 5 days with the women’s ceremonies featuring traditional music, elaborate henna ceremonies, and displays of jewelry worth more than small nations treasuries.

My sister looked radiant in designer gowns that maintained perfect Islamic modesty while showcasing the finest craftsmanship money could buy.

Hassan appeared to be the perfect husband for my sister.

He came from a family known for both business success and religious devotion.

His father had built a textile empire while maintaining a reputation for strict Islamic practice.

Hassan himself had spent two years studying Islamic law in Damascus and spoke fluent classical Arabic.

The march seemed divinely ordained, bringing together two families committed to both worldly success and spiritual excellence.

The first year uh brought happiness as my sister embraced her role as devoted wife.

She managed a household of 20 servants while maintaining her religious studies.

Hassan seemed pleased with his educated, beautiful wife who enhanced his family’s reputation.

We all expected pregnancy announcements within months as Islamic culture demands.

My sister threw herself into married life with the same dedication she had shown toward religious studies.

She learned to manage a complex household budget, supervised elaborate dinner parties for Hassan’s business associates, and maintained correspondence with Islamic scholars across the region.

Her home became known as a center of learning where women could continue their religious education after marriage.

Hassan took obvious pride in having such an accomplished wife.

He would boast to his friends about her religious knowledge and her ability to discuss complex business matters intelligently.

Their home was filled with religious artifacts, Islamic art, and libraries that riveled those of major universities.

Everything seemed perfect according to Islamic ideals of marriage.

Month after month passed without the joyous news everyone anticipated.

My sister consulted every doctor in Riyad, underwent countless medical examinations.

She increased her prayers to five times daily, added special supplications for fertility.

The family’s excitement gradually transformed into worry, then whispered concern.

What started as gentle inquiries about pregnancy became increasingly pointed questions from extended family members, Islamic culture place enormous pressure on couples to produce children quickly, especially male heirs who will carry on the family name and inherit wealth.

My sister’s continued studies and community involvement could not mask the growing anxiety about her failure to conceive.

The visits to fertility specialists became a source of both hope and humiliation.

Despite having access to the world’s best medical care, each appointment brought the same disappointing results.

My sister would return home from these consultations with red eyes from crying.

Though she tried to maintain her composed public demeanor, Hassan’s patience was beginning to wear thin and family gatherings became tense affairs where pregnancy was the unspoken topic dominating every conversation.

In Saudi culture, a woman’s entire worth centers on producing male heirs.

After 18 months without pregnancy, extended family began asking pointed questions.

Hassan’s mother started making cruel comments about defective merchandise.

My sister’s confidence crumbled under the constant scrutiny and judgment.

The transformation was gradual but devastating to witness.

My sister, who had once commanded respect in scholarly circles and led to rel religious discussions with confidence, began shrinking into herself during family gatherings.

Hassan’s mother would make cutting remarks about empty wombs and barren branches on the family tree.

While other relatives nodded in agreement, the woman who had memorized the entire Quran was being reduced to her biological function alone.

Islamic culture teaches that children especially sons are blessings from Allah and their absence indicates divine displayer.

Aunts and cousins who had once sought my sisters religious advice began treating her with a mixture of pity and suspicion.

They whispered behind her back about possible sins she must have committed to earn Allah’s punishment.

Her scholarly achievements, once sources of pride, were now dismissed as meaningless compared to her failure as a wife.

The social isolation became crushing.

Women’s gatherings that my sister had once organized and led were now awkward affairs where she sat silently while others discussed their children and pregnancies.

Former friends would avoid mentioning their own fertility out of misplaced kindness, creating an atmosphere of artificial politeness that made every interaction feel strained and uncomfortable.

Hassan’s mother, who had initially welcomed my sister as a daughter, became increasingly hostile and accusatory.

She would make loud comments during family dinners about how her son deserved a proper wife who could give him children.

These verbal attacks were delivered in the traditional Arabic style of indirect confrontation using metaphors and implications that everyone understood but no one could directly challenge.

My brother-in-law changed from loving husband to bitter, angry stranger.

He began staying out late, showing up at family gatherings with obvious contempt.

I heard him telling friends that Allah must be punishing him through his barren wife.

The verbal abuse escalated to physical violence that my sister tried desperately to hide.

The transformation in Hassan was perhaps the most painful aspect of the entire ordeal.

The man who had courted my sister with poetry and promises of eternal devotion became cold and distant.

He stopped including her in business discussions, no longer sought her advice on religious matters, and began treating her like an unwelcome burden rather than a beloved partner.

Hassan’s frustration manifested in increasingly cruel behavior.

He would bring up her infertility during arguments about completely unrelated topics, using her inability to conceive as a weapon to win any disagreement.

He began making unfavorable comparisons to his friend’s wives who had successfully born children, describing in detail what he was missing because of my sister’s deficiency.

The physical abuse started subtly with rough handling during arguments, escalating to slaps during heated exchanges.

My sister would appear at family functions with carefully applied makeup covering bruises, claiming she had fallen or walked into doors.

She became expert at explaining away injuries, protecting Hassan’s reputation even as he destroyed her spirit and body.

I witnessed Hassan’s contempt during family gatherings where he would openly ignore my sister’s presence, speaking about her in the third person while she sat beside him.

He would discuss his problem with other men as if she were not a human being with feelings, but merely a malfunctioning piece of property that needed to be replaced or repaired.

My mother stopped inviting my sister to women’s social gatherings to avoid embarrassing questions.

Cousins who once sought her religious advice began treating her with pity and distance.

My father’s political enemies started whispering that Allah had cursed our family line.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Can you imagine bearing such shame for something beyond your control? The social ostracism extended beyond immediate family to affect our entire clans standing in Saudi society.

In a culture where family honor is paramount, my sister’s infertility was seen as a reflection of moral failure that tainted everyone associated with our lineage.

Our political allies began distancing themselves from my father, suggesting that a man whose daughter was cursed by Allah might not be suitable for important government positions.

My mother, who had once proudly displayed my sister’s academic certificates and religious achievements to visitors, quietly removed them from public areas of our home.

She began declining invitations to social events where my sister’s situation might become a topic of discussion.

The woman who had raised a daughter to be a model of Islamic scholarship was now ashamed to be associated with her.

business relationships that Hassan’s family had carefully cultivated over generations began suffering as rumors spread about the cursed marriage that had brought divine displeasure upon both families in Saudi Arabia’s interconnected business community.

Personal and professional relationships are inseparable and family shame inevitably affects commercial success.

The pressure drove my sister to attempt suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills.

We found her unconscious in her bedroom, rushed her to a private hospital for treatment.

Two months later, she tried jumping from our palace balcony, but was stopped by servants.

Each attempt only increased family shame and convinced Hassan’s family she was mentally unstable.

Finding my sister unconscious was a moment that shattered my understanding of Islamic justice.

Here was a woman who had devoted her life to serving Allah, who had achieved more religious knowledge than most male scholars, reduced to such despair that death seemed preferable to continued existence.

I sat beside her hospital bed watching machines monitor her vital signs and questioned for the first time whether our religious system was truly merciful.

The suicide attempts were treated by our family as additional sources of shame rather than cries for help.

In Islamic culture, suicide is considered one of the gravest sins.

and my sister’s desperation was interpreted as further evidence of her spiritual corruption.

Instead of receiving compassion and support, she faced additional condemnation for bringing more dishonor upon our family name.

Hassan’s family used the suicide attempts as justification for their increasingly harsh treatment of my sister.

Uh they argued that uh her mental instability proved she was unfit to be anyone’s wife and uh that Hassan was the victim in their marriage.

The woman who had once been celebrated for her emotional intelligence and spiritual wisdom was now dismissed as mentally defective.

Hassan’s mother consulted with tribal elders who suggested supernatural causes for the infertility.

They claimed my sister must have practiced black magic to trap Hassan in marriage.

The accusation was that she used sorcery to appear fertile, then cursed herself to avoid bearing children.

In Saudi Arabia, witchcraft accusations are taken seriously by both society and the legal system.

The witchcraft accusation was the logical conclusion of months of searching for someone to blame for my sister’s infertility.

In a culture that believes Allah directly controls all aspects of human reproduction, the failure to conceive must have supernatural explanations.

Since my sister had been obviously devout and religiously knowledgeable, the only remaining explanation was secret involvement with forbidden spiritual practices.

The tribal elders who made this suggestion were respected members of our community whose opinions carried significant weight in religious and legal matters.

They pointed to my sister’s unusual intelligence and religious scholarship as evidence of supernatural assistance.

In their view, no woman could naturally achieve such learning without demonic help.

And the infertility was Allah’s punishment for her forbidden knowledge.

Hassan’s family seized upon this explanation eagerly as it provided them with religious justification for their treatment of my sister and a legal pathway to escape an embarrassing marriage.

They hired Islamic legal scholars to research precedents for prosecuting women accused of practicing witchcraft within marriage, finding numerous historical cases where similar accusations had led to severe punishment.

Hassan’s family hired Islamic legal scholars to build a case for sorcery charges.

They cited hadiths about barren women being cursed for hidden sins against Allah.

Witnesses testified about my sister’s unnatural intelligence and religious knowledge.

The argument was that only supernatural means could explain such learning in a woman.

The legal case that emerged was methodical and terrifying in its logic.

Islamic law recognizes witchcraft as a capital offense and the evidence presented followed established patterns for proving supernatural crimes.

My sister’s exceptional religious knowledge which had once been celebrated as a blessing was now reinterpreted as proof of forbidden supernatural assistance.

Witnesses came forward to testify about unusual incidents surrounding my sister’s scholarly achievements.

Former classmates recalled how quickly she had mastered complex religious texts that took others years to understand.

Religious teachers testified about her uncanny ability to answer difficult theological questions without apparent study or preparation.

These testimonies once sources of pride became evidence of demonic assistance uh in the legal proceedings.

The case was brought before the provincial Sharia court in Riyad for official judgment.

Five senior clerics presided all known for their strict interpretation of Islamic law.

Hassan’s family presented circumstantial evidence of sorcery and divine curse.

My sister’s protests of innocence were dismissed as expected denials from the accused.

The court proceedings were a mockery of justice disguised as religious righteousness.

The five judges had already decided my sister’s fate before hearing any testimony.

Viewing the case as an opportunity to demonstrate their commitment to upholding Islamic purity, they listened to accusations with grave attention while dismissing my sister’s defense as the desperate lies of a guilty woman.

The circumstantial evidence presented included everything from my sister’s rapid mastery of religious texts to the timing of certain family misfortunes that allegedly coincided with her marriage.

The judges nodded approvingly as Hassan’s family painted a picture of my sister as a cunning sorceress who had deceived everyone about her true nature.

After three days of proceedings, the court declared my sister guilty of practicing witchcraft.

The chief judge explained that her infertility proved Allah’s rejection of her sorcerous practices.

Islamic law demanded death by fire for spiritual crimes that brought Allah’s curse upon families.

As the eldest available male relative, I was commanded to carry out the execution personally.

The verdict was delivered with the ceremonial gravity that Saudi courts reserve for capital cases.

The chief judge quoted extensively from classical Islamic texts about the dangers of witchcraft and the necessity of eliminating practitioners to protect the community from divine wrath.

He explained that my sister’s execution would serve as both punishment for her crimes and purification for our family’s honor.

The requirement that I personally carry out the execution was presented as both an honor and a test of my own religious devotion.

The court explained that by killing my sister with my own hands, I would demonstrate that my loyalty to Allah superseded family bonds and prove my own innocence of any in involvement in her sorceress practices.

My father publicly supported the court’s decision, saying Islamic law superseded family bonds.

My mother wept but insisted that Allah’s justice was more important than maternal feelings.

Hassan immediately began divorce proceedings, claiming religious justification for abandoning my sister.

I sat alone in my study, horrified by the legal system I had supported my entire life.

The family’s unanimous support for the death sentence was the final devastating blow in this nightmare.

People I loved and respected were calmly discussing my sister’s execution as if it were a necessary medical procedure rather than the murder of an innocent woman.

Their religious certainty was absolute, broking no discussion or doubt about the righteousness of burning my sister alive.

The isolation was complete.

I was surrounded by family, friends and uh religious authorities who all agreed that uh killing my sister was not just permissible but morally required.

For the first time in my life, I found myself questioning whether the Islamic system I had devoted my existence to serving was truly from God or something far more sinister.

I spent every waking hour consulting Islamic scholars across the Middle East.

I offered the court enormous bribes, threatened political consequences, begged for mercy.

Some clerics suggested exile instead of execution, but the provincial court refused compromise.

Every legal avenue led to the same conclusion.

Islamic law demanded my sister’s death.

My desperation drove me to contact religious authorities in Egypt, Jordan, Morocco, and even Iran, hoping to find some interpretation of Islamic law that could save my sister’s life.

I spent millions of dollars flying prominent scholars to Riyad for private consultations.

Each meeting ending with the same devastating conclusion.

The evidence against my sister, though circumstantial, met the legal standards for witchcraft prosecution under classical Islamic juristprudence.

The Grand Mofty of Alar, one of Islam’s highest authorities, listened to my plea with sympathetic eyes, but confirmed that the Saudi court had followed proper legal procedures.

He explained that while the case was tragic, Islamic law was clear about the punishment for spiritual crimes that brought divine curse upon families.

His compassion for our situation could not override centuries of established religious precedent.

I attempted to use my royal influence to pressure the court, meeting privately with judges and offering substantial financial incentives for them to reconsider their verdict.

These conversations were conducted in the coded language of Saudi politics where direct bribery is never mentioned explicitly.

Each judge listened respectfully to my concerns, but remained unmoved, explaining that their religious duty superseded any earthly considerations.

For the first time in my life, I began questioning whether Islamic law truly represented God’s will.

How could a merciful Allah demand I murder my innocent sister for being unable to conceive? I spent sleepless nights reading Quran, searching for verses about divine mercy and forgiveness.

Every passage about Allah’s compassion seemed contradicted by this horrific legal requirement.

The theological crisis that began during this period shattered my understanding of Islam more completely than any external argument could have.

I had memorized the Quran three times, studied thousands of pages of hadith commentary, and devoted my life to understanding Islamic law.

Yet, when that knowledge was applied to my sister’s situation, it produced a result that violated every instinct of human decency and divine love.

I found myself reading familiar verses about Allah’s mercy with new eyes, wondering how the same religion that proclaimed God’s infinite compassion could demand the execution of an innocent woman.

The 99 names of Allah that I had recited thousands of times included alman the compassionate and arim the merciful.

Yet the legal system derived from Islamic teachings showed no trace of these qualities.

Late at night in my study, surrounded by religious texts that had once brought comfort and certainty, I began to see contradictions I had never noticed before.

The Quran spoke of Allah’s love for justice, while the legal system it inspired produced manifestly unjust results.

I started questioning whether the problem lay with Islamic laws interpretation or with Islam itself.

My father warned that refusing to execute my sister would bring shame upon our entire lineage.

Religious leaders reminded me that obeying Islamic law was more important than personal feelings.

Even my mother suggested that killing my sister was an act of mercy, freeing her from cursed existence.

I found myself completely alone in opposing what everyone else saw as religious duty.

The pressure from my own family was perhaps more devastating than the legal requirement itself.

These were people who loved me, who had raised me in the Islamic faith, who genuinely believed they were guiding me toward righteousness, their inability to see the horror of what they were, asking me to do revealed how completely Islamic ideology had blinded them to basic human morality.

My father’s warnings about family honor carried particular weight in Saudi culture where reputation affects not just social standing but economic and political survival.

He explained that my refusal to carry out the execution would be interpreted as sympathy for witchcraft potentially bringing similar accusations against our entire family.

The Islamic legal system created situations where refusing to participate in evil was itself considered evidence of guilt.

Religious leaders who had mentored me since childhood spoke earnestly about the necessity of placing obedience to Allah above human emotional attachments.

They cited examples of biblical and Quranic figures who had demonstrated similar faith by being willing to sacrifice family members for divine commands.

Their sincerity was unmistakable, making their council even more disturbing than if it had been obviously malicious.

The execution was scheduled for June 7th, 2019 in the public courtyard of the Grand Mosque.

I was required to light the fire personally while hundreds of witnesses watched.

My sister was to be tied to a wooden steak dosed with oil and burned alive.

Have you ever faced a situation where every choice led to unthinkable consequences? The detailed preparations for the execution were conducted with bureaucratic efficiency that made the entire process feel surreal.

Officials provided me with written instructions about proper procedure for lighting the fire, the type of oil to be used for maximum combustion and the positioning of my sister on the steak to ensure quick death.

These technical details were discussed as if we were planning a construction project rather than a human execution.

The location chosen for the execution carried symbolic significance that was not lost on me.

The Grand Mosque courtyard was where I had led prayers for hundreds of worshippers, where I had given sermons about Allah’s mercy and justice.

Now it would become the site where I murdered my own sister in the name of that same religion.

The public nature of the execution was intended to serve as both punishment and education for the broader community.

Hundreds of people were expected to attend, including families with children who would witness the burning as an example of what happened to those who practiced witchcraft.

The thought of traumatizing innocent children with such violence added another layer of horror to an already unthinkable situation.

June 6th, I spent the final night sitting with my sister in her prison cell.

She had accepted her fate with remarkable grace, forgiving me in advance for following court orders.

We prayed together to Allah one last time.

Though the words felt hollow and meaningless, she made me promise to tell any future children that their aunt died with dignity.

My sister’s composure during our final conversation was more heartbreaking than if she had been hysterical.

with fear.

She spoke calmly about her hopes for my future, her forgiveness for Hassan’s cruelty, and her acceptance of what she believed was Allah’s will.

Her faith remained intact even as the religious system that had shaped her life prepared to destroy her.

She had spent weeks in her cell reading the Quran and preparing for death with the same thoroughess she had once applied to her scholarly work.

Her final letters to family members were filled with expressions of love and forgiveness without a trace of bitterness or accusation.

She faced execution with more grace than her accusers had shown during her trial.

Our final prayer together was a moment of profound spiritual confusion for me.

I knelt beside my sister on the cold prison floor reciting verses about Allah’s mercy while knowing that in 12 hours I would be burning her alive in his name.

The contradiction was so stark that the words seemed to dissolve into meaningless sounds as they left my lips.

Alone in my chambers at 3:00 a.

m.

I collapsed on my prayer rug in absolute despair.

Every Islamic prayer I knew felt powerless against the horror approaching at dawn.

I had followed Allah’s laws perfectly my entire life.

Yet he demanded I become a murderer.

The contradiction between Allah’s supposed mercy and this legal requirement shattered my faith.

The spiritual crisis that overwhelmed me during those final hours was unlike anything I had experienced in 29 years of devout Islamic practice.

I had always found comfort and strength in prayer.

But now the very act of prostrating myself toward Mecca felt like mockery.

How could I worship a god who demanded I commit an act that every fiber of my being recognized as evil? I attempted to pray the traditional Islamic prayers for guidance and strength, but the words felt like ashes in my mouth.

The familiar phrases about Allah’s justice and mercy seemed to mock the situation I faced.

I tried reciting Quranic verses about trusting in divine wisdom, but they provided no comfort when that wisdom apparently required infanticide.

In my desperation, I remembered hearing stories about Christians claiming Jesus answers prayers.

I had always dismissed Christianity as corrupted monotheism, but I was out of options.

Trembling with fear and hope, I whispered, “Jesus, if you’re real, please save my sister.

” The words felt foreign on my lips, like speaking a forbidden language in my father’s house.

The decision to pray to Jesus was born of absolute desperation rather than any theological conviction.

I had been taught my entire life that such prayer was blasphemous.

That Jesus was merely a human prophet who could not answer prayers or intervened in human affairs.

Yet facing the complete failure of Islamic prayer to provide any solution, I was willing to try anything that might save my sister’s life.

Speaking Jesus’s name felt like crossing a spiritual threshold from which there could be no return.

In Islamic theology, directing prayer to anyone other than Allah is the unforgivable sin of sherik worse than murder or adultery.

Yet, as I knelt on my prayer rug, preparing to commit a murder I knew was wrong, breaking this religious taboo seemed like the lesser evil.

The moment I said Jesus’s name, supernatural peace filled my prison cell.

A warm presence surrounded me unlike anything in my decades of Islamic prayer and meditation.

I heard the voice speaking directly to my spirit.

I will save her and you both.

I knew immediately this wasn’t Allah responding.

This was someone completely different and infinitely loving.

The transformation that occurred in that moment was immediate and unmistakable.

The crushing despair that had been building for weeks suddenly lifted, replaced by a piece that had no rational explanation.

The voice I heard was not audible to my physical ears, but it spoke to my spirit with perfect clarity and authority that left no room for doubt about its divine origin.

This presence was unlike anything I had encountered during a lifetime of Islamic mystical practices and deep prayer sessions where Allah had always felt distant and demanding.

This presence was intimate and reassuring where Islamic prayer had become increasingly hollow during this crisis.

Communication with this divine being felt natural and genuine.

I knew instinctively that my desperate prayer had been heard and answered by someone with the power to change everything.

June 7th dawned gray and ominous as hundreds gathered in the mosque courtyard.

Religious leaders sat in places of on a while common people crowded behind barriers.

My sister was brought out in white burial garments walking with supernatural dignity.

I stood beside the p holding a torch, my hands shaking uncontrollably with dread.

The morning air was thick with anticipation and religious fervor as crowds assembled for what they believed would be a righteous demonstration of Islamic justice.

The Grand Mosque courtyard had been transformed into an execution arena with wooden barriers separating different sections of spectators according to social rank and gender.

Senior clerics occupied elevated platforms draped in green silk while common citizens pressed against the rope barriers for better views of the spectacle.

My sister emerged from her prison transport with composure that silenced the murmuring crowd.

Despite weeks of confinement and psychological torture, she walked with her head held high, her white burial shroud flowing behind her like royal robes.

Her face showed no trace of fear or hatred, only a serene acceptance that made her appear almost otherworldly against the backdrop of angry spectators demanding her death.

I watched from my position beside the execution p holding the ceremonial torch that would soon become the instrument of my sister’s murder.

My hands trembled so violently that I could barely maintain my grip on the wooden handle.

Every fiber of my being screamed against what I was about to do.

Yet the weight of religious law and uh family expectation held me captive to this horrific destiny.

The p itself was a carefully constructed monument to religious cruelty built from seasoned wood and arranged to ensure maximum combustion and prolonged suffering.

Court officials had supervised its construction according to specifications drawn from medieval Islamic legal texts, ensuring that the execution would conform to historical precedents for burning accused witches.

Oil soaked rugs had been strategically placed to guarantee that the flames would spread quickly once ignited.

The chief judge read the charges aloud while my sister was tied to the wooden stake.

Oil was poured over the kindling as religious leaders chanted verses about divine justice.

I raised the torch toward the powing I couldn’t go through with this abomination.

Just as the flame neared the oil soaked wood, everything changed in a supernatural instant.

The formal reading of charges took nearly 10 minutes with the chief judge’s voice carrying across the courtyard through strategically placed speakers.

He recited the evidence of witchcraft, the testimony of witnesses and the religious justifications for execution by fire.

Each word fell like a hammer blow on my conscience as I stood frozen beside the p, knowing that in moments I would be required to light my sister’s funeral.

My sister’s face remained peaceful throughout the recitation of her supposed crimes.

She looked directly at me with eyes full of love and forgiveness, mouththing words of comfort even as attendance bound her hands behind the wooden stake.

Her strength in that moment made my weakness more apparent, highlighting how Islamic law had turned a devoted brother into a reluctant executioner.

The religious leaders chanted verses about divine justice created an atmosphere of ritualistic solemnity that made the entire proceeding feel like a sacred ceremony rather than legalized murder.

Their voices rose and fell in practiced cadences designed to invoke divine blessing upon the execution, transforming coldblooded killing into an act of worship.

A sudden windstorm erupted from nowhere, extinguishing every flame in the courtyard.

Lightning struck the execution platform, splitting the wooden structure completely in half.

Rain poured from cloudless skies, soaking everyone and making fire impossible to maintain.

The crowd scuttered in terror, convinced Allah himself was rejecting the execution.

The supernatural storm materialized with violent intensity that defied all natural explanation.

The sky had been clear moments before, but now hurricane force winds howled through the mosque courtyard with precision that seemed divinely directed.

Every torch, lamp, and flame within the entire complex was instantly extinguished, plunging hundreds of people into premature darkness despite the morning hour.

The lightning that struck the execution platform was unlike any natural phenomenon I had ever witnessed.

Instead of the brief flush typical of thunderstorms, this bolt maintained contact with the wooden structure for several seconds, splitting the carefully constructed pair into useless fragments.

The sound was deafening yet musical, like divine artillery announcing heaven’s judgment upon our proceedings.

Rain began falling from skies that remained completely clawless, creating an impossible meteorological event that left spectators staring upward in bewilderment.

The water fell in torrents that soaked everyone present within seconds, making the lighting of any fire completely impossible.

Yet the rain fell only within the mosque courtyard, leaving adjacent areas completely dry.

In the midst of pandemonium, I heard the same voice that had spoken in my cell.

Aloudin, take your sister and run.

I am making a way where there is no way.

Supernatural strength filled my body as I cut my sister’s bones and lifted her.

We ran through the panicking crowd while the impossible storm continued with divine intensity.

The voice that spoke to me during the chaos was unmistakably the same presence I had encountered during my desperate prayer the night before.

It carried absolute authority that penetrated through the screaming crowd and howling wind, reaching my ears with the perfect clarity despite the surrounding cacophony.

The command was simple but impossible to ignore or misinterpret.

Strength that was definitely not my own flooded through my muscles as I grabbed the ceremonial knife from my belt and sliced through my sister’s bones.

The ropes that should have required several minutes to cut parted instantly under my blade, as if they were made of paper rather than thick hemp.

I lifted my sister’s body with ease that defied my physical capabilities, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Our escape through the panicking crowd should have been impossible given the chaos and confusion surrounding us.

Hundreds of people were running in all directions.

Yet somehow a clear path opened before us through the mob.

Religious leaders who should have tried to stop our flight seemed unable to see us despite passing within arms reach of our fleeing forms.

We reached my private Mercedes as the storm suddenly stopped, leaving everyone stunned.

The car started immediately despite being soaked by the supernatural rainfall.

Guards and officials stood frozen as if they couldn’t see us despite being in plain sight.

Driving toward King Khaled Airport, we both knew we had witnessed divine intervention.

The sudden sessation of the storm was as supernatural as its beginning.

One moment we were running through howling wind and torrential rain and the next we stood beside my car under completely calm skies.

The transition was instantaneous and absolute leaving hundreds of witnesses staring at each other in confused silence trying to process what they had just experienced.

My luxury sedan, which should have been completely water logged and impossible to start, fired up immediately when I turned the key.

The engine paired with perfect efficiency despite water still dripping from its exterior surfaces.

dashboard.

Electronics that should have been fried by moisture functioned normally as if the vehicle had been divinely protected during the supernatural deluge.

The most uh inexplicable aspect of our escape was the behavior of security personnel and government officials who should have immediately pursued us.

These were men trained to react instantly to any disruption of official proceedings.

Yet they stood motionless as we drove past their positions.

Their eyes seemed to look through us rather than at us, as if some supernatural force was preventing them from recognizing our presence.

Border security should have arrested us immediately for fleeing an execution scene.

Instead, immigration officers processed our departure as if it were routine travel.

We boarded a British Airways flight to London without any official questioning.

Look inside your own heart right now.

How do you explain such impossible circumstances? The journey to the airport should have taken us through multiple security checkpoints where our flight would have been immediately detected and stopped.

Saudi Arabia maintains some of the world’s most sophisticated surveillance systems with facial recognition technology and comprehensive databases that track every citizen’s movements.

Yet we passed through each checkpoint as if we were invisible to the very systems designed to prevent exactly this type of escape.

At the airport, immigration officials who knew my face from years of royal travel, processed our departure paperwork with routine efficiency.

They stumped our passports and wish it as pleasant travels, showing no awareness that we were fleeing a criminal execution scene.

Their behavior was so normal that I began wondering if the entire morning’s events had been some kind of elaborate hallucination.

The British Airways gate agent who processed our boarding passes commented pleasantly on the weather and asked about our plans in London.

Her casual friendliness seemed surreal given that we were international fugitives fleeing charges of witchcraft and contempt of court.

Yet somehow our names had not yet appeared on any watch lists or travel restrictions.

30,000 ft above the Arabian Peninsula, spiritual chains fell from our souls.

My sister looked at me with tears streaming.

That wasn’t Allah who saved us.

I know, I replied.

It was Jesus Christ and everything we believed was wrong.

We held hands and prayed to Jesus together for the first time in our lives.

The realization that crushed over us during that flight was more devastating than liberating in its initial impact.

Everything we had been taught about God, religion, and spiritual truth had been proven false in the span of a few hours.

The Islamic faith that had structured our entire existence revealed itself as powerless when confronted with genuine divine intervention.

My sister’s tears were a mixture of relief, gratitude, and profound spiritual confusion.

She had been prepared to die for her Islamic beliefs.

Yet those same beliefs had condemned her to death for imaginary crimes.

The god she had worshiped and served faithfully her entire life had remained silent while she faced execution.

But a deity she had been taught to reject had intervened supernaturally to save her life.

Our first prayer to Jesus together was halting and uncertain, filled with gratitude we could barely express and questions we couldn’t yet articulate.

We didn’t know proper Christian prayer formulas or theological concepts.

But we knew with absolute certainty that Jesus Christ had demonstrated power and love that made our former religious experience seem hollow by comparison.

The peace and love we felt praying to Jesus was unlike anything from Islamic worship.

Allah had demanded my sister’s death.

Jesus had supernaturally intervened to save her life.

Islamic law condemned her for circumstances beyond her control.

Jesus offered unconditional love.

We understood that we weren’t just escoping execution.

We were being spiritually reborn over the Atlantic Ocean.

I surrendered my life completely to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.

My sister did the same.

Both of us weeping as we felt the Holy Spirit enter our hearts.

The emptiness that Islamic religion had never filled was suddenly overflowing with joy.

We were no longer just Saudi royalty.

We had become children of the King of Kings.

We landed at Heathro airport as political asylum seekers, no longer Saudi royalty.

Our conversion to Christianity made returning home impossible.

It meant certain execution from policies worth hundreds of millions to modest London flood.

We had lost everything material.

But I’m asking you, just as someone who experienced both wealth and poverty, which matters for eternity, the transition from royal privilege to refugee status was jarring beyond anything I could have imagined.

At Heithro, we were processed through immigration, not as visiting dignitaries with diplomatic passports, but as asylum seekers fleeing religious persecution.

The same British officials who had once greeted us with ceremonial respect now viewed us with a mixture of suspicion and professional sympathy reserved for displaced persons.

Our first night in London was spent in a government sponsored hostel for asylum seekers sharing cramped quarters with uh refugees from Afghanistan, Syria and Somalia.

The contrast with our former lifestyle was stark.

From silk sheets in climate controlled palaces to narrow cuts in overheated rooms filled with the desperate conversations of the displaced.

Yet for the first time in weeks, I slept peacefully knowing that Jesus had delivered us from certain death.

The British legal aid attorney assigned to our case explained that our conversion to Christianity combined with the execution warrant in Saudi Arabia qualified us for immediate protection under international religious freedom laws.

However, this protection came with the understanding that we could never return to our homeland.

The kingdom we had once helped rule was now permanently closed to us.

Our former lives erased as completely as if we had died.

We bought our first Bible legally at a London bookstore.

Something uh impossible in Saudi Arabia.

Reading the Gospels revealed how completely wrong Islamic teaching about Jesus had been.

He wasn’t just a prophet pointing toward God.

He was God himself come to save humanity.

Every page showed us love, grace, and truth we had never encountered in Islamic texts.

Walking into Foil’s bookstore on Charing Cross Road, I experienced freedom I had never known existed.

In Saudi Arabia, possession of a Bible was punishable by imprisonment.

But here, I could purchase multiple translations, study guides, and commentaries without fear.

The elderly Clark, who helped us select our first study Bible, had no idea he was witnessing the spiritual rebirth of two former Islamic fundamentalists.

Reading the Gospel of John that first night was a revelation that shattered every preconception I had held about Christianity.

The opening verse in the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God directly contradicted Islamic teaching about Jesus being merely a created prophet.

Yet after witnessing his supernatural intervention in our lives, these words rung with unmistakable truth.

My sister and I would sit for hours in our small flat comparing gospel passages with our memories of Quranic verses about Jesus.

The differences were stark and uh irreconcilable where the Quran denied Jesus’s crucifixion.

The Gospels placed his death and resurrection at the center of human history.

where Islamic uh texts portrayed him as a limited human messenger, scripture revealed him as the eternal son of God with authority over nature, death, and supernatural forces.

The sermon on the mount challenged everything we had believed about religious law and divine expectations.

Jesus’s teaching about loving enemies, forgiving those who persecute you, and blessing those who curse you stood in sharp contrast to Islamic concepts of justice and retribution.

The God revealed in these pages was radically different from the Allah we had worshiped our entire lives.

Discovering Jesus’s true identity became a daily revelation that transformed our understanding of of God’s nature.

The Quran taught that Jesus was merely a human messenger denying his divinity completely.

But the Bible revealed him as the eternal son of God equal with the father.

His miracles weren’t just signs pointing to Allah.

They were proof of his own divine nature.

The trinity once blasphemous to us became beautiful truth about God’s perfect unity.

The Islamic doctrine of which we had been taught was Islam’s greatest truth suddenly seemed like a limitation rather than a theological achievement.

The Christian understanding of God as father, son, and holy spirit revealed depths of divine love and relationship that Islamic monotheism could never approach.

God was not a distant solitary ruler, but a divine community of perfect love existing from eternity.

Jesus’s claims about himself recorded throughout the gospels were either the words of a lunatic or the truth about God incarnate.

Islamic teaching had trained us to dismiss these claims as later corruptions of his original message.

But the historical evidence and manuscript traditions we studied in London proved their authenticity.

The Jesus of history had indeed claimed to be divine and his resurrection validated those claims.

The concept of God becoming human to save humanity was revolutionary to minds trained in Islamic theology.

Allah was portrayed as transcendent to the point of being unreachable whereas Jesus had descended to the lowest point of human experience to lift us to divine heights.

This wasn’t the distant deity of Islamic philosophy, but Emmanuel, God with us in the most literal sense possible.

Understanding salvation by grace revolutionized our entire worldview.

Islamic theology demanded perfect obedience to earn Allah’s favor through good works.

Christianity revealed that salvation is a free gift through faith in Jesus finished work.

All our years of prayers, fasting, and religious devotion had been powerless to save us.

But Jesus death and resurrection had accomplished what we could never achieve ourselves.

The burden of Islamic law that had governed every aspect of our lives was suddenly lifted and replaced with the freedom of grace.

No longer did we need to perform ritual prayers five times daily, fast during Ramadan, or follow dietary restrictions to maintain God’s approval.

Jesus had fulfilled all righteousness on our behalf, and our relationship with God was secured by his merit rather than our performance.

The concept of assurance was perhaps the most liberating truth we discovered.

Islamic theology offered only hope that good deeds would outweigh sins on judgment day.

But Christianity provided certain knowledge that our salvation was secure in Christ.

We could know beyond doubt that our sins were forgiven and our eternal destiny was guaranteed because of Jesus’s perfect sacrifice.

My sister’s emotional healing was miraculous to witness.

years of shame about uh infertility began healing as she learned her worth in Christ.

She discovered that uh her value wasn’t in bearing children but in being God’s beloved daughter.

The condemnation from Islamic culture was replaced by unconditional acceptance from Jesus.

Depression and suicidal thoughts were driven away by the hope of eternal life in Christ.

The transformation in my sister was immediate and profound.

The woman who had attempted suicide twice due to cultural shame now radiated joy and purpose.

She began to understand that God’s plan for her life wasn’t defined by her reproductive capability, but by her calling as his daughter.

The identity crisis that had nearly destroyed her was resolved in discovering her true worth in Christ’s eyes.

She started reading books by Christian women who had struggled with infertility, finding comfort and wisdom in their testimonies.

The realization that God uses all circumstances, even painful ones, for his glory and our good, gave new meaning to her suffering.

What had seemed like divine curse under Islamic law was revealed as part of God’s plan to bring us both to salvation.

Finding a Christian community at a local evangelical church was like discovering family we never knew we had.

For the first time, we worshiped God in complete freedom, singing praises to Jesus openly.

Other believers from Muslim backgrounds shared stories of persecution and miraculous conversion.

We discovered a global family united by faith rather than divided by nationality or social class.

Our first Sunday at Holy Trinity Brmpton was overwhelming in the best possible way.

Hundreds of people from dozens of nations worshiped together in multiple languages, united by their love for Jesus Christ.

The diversity was beautiful.

former Muslims from Pakistan, Iran and Somalia, Africans from Nigeria and Kenya, Europeans from across the continent, all celebrating the same savior who had transformed their lives.

The pastor who welcomed us had worked with Muslim converts for over 20 years and immediately understood the spiritual and practical challenges we faced.

He connected us with other believers from Islamic backgrounds who became mentors in our Christian journey, teaching us biblical principles while helping us navigate the complex process of building new identities in Christ.

We grieved these losses deeply while celebrating our infinitely greater gain in Christ.

Our parents officially disowned us, declaring us dead according to Islamic law and Saudi custom.

Former friends and extended family treated us as traitors to Islam and enemies of the kingdom.

Saudi media reported our conversion as evidence of Western corruption and mental illness.

The finality of our family’s rejection was devastating despite our new found joy in Christ.

Photographs of us were removed from family homes.

Our names were no longer mentioned in family gatherings and our inheritance rights were legally terminated.

In Islamic culture, conversion to Christianity is viewed as worse than physical death because it represents eternal spiritual destruction.

News reports in Saudi media portrayed our conversion as the predictable result of Western decadence and moral corruption.

Government sponsored clerics used our story as a cautionary tale about the dangers of allowing young Saudis to study abroad.

Our testimony was dismissed as the fabricated claims of mentally unstable individuals seeking asylum through false religious conversion.

Yet even as we mourned these earthly losses, we celebrated the eternal family we had gained in Christ, the love and acceptance from our Christian brothers and sisters began healing the wounds left by familial rejection.

We learned that following Jesus had always required sacrifice and our experience connected us with believers throughout history who had paid similar prices for their faith.

We studied systematic theology to understand the fundamental differences between Islam and Christianity.

The concept of God’s love became central, replacing our former fear-based relationship with Allah.

Biblical prophecy showed us how Jesus fulfilled every Old Testament promise about the Messiah.

We learned that Christianity wasn’t a corrupted version of Islam.

It was God’s perfect revelation.

Our theological education in London revealed how completely incompatible Islam and Christianity actually are.

Despite common claims about their similarity, the nature of God, the means of salvation, the authority of scripture, and the destiny of humanity, every major doctrine diverged dramatically between the two faiths.

They were not different paths to the same destination, but completely different religions with opposing truth claims.

The Old Testament prophecies about the coming Messiah matched Jesus’s life and ministry with stunning precision.

Isaiah 53’s uh description of the suffering servant, written centuries before Christ’s birth, provided an exact preview of his sacrificial death for humanity’s sins.

These prophecies were either the most remarkable coincidences in human history or proof that Jesus was indeed the promised savior of the world.

Jesus had saved us not just for our own benefit but to be witnesses to other Muslims.

My sister felt called uh to minister specifically to Muslim women trapped in oppressive religious systems.

I began studying for ordination as an evangelist to the Islamic world.

Our dramatic conversion story gave us unique credibility among people who normally rejected Christianity.

Within 6 months of our conversion, we both sensed a clear calling from God to share the gospel with the Islamic world.

This wasn’t merely a desire born from gratitude for our rescue, but a divine commission that burned in our hearts with increasing intensity.

The same Jesus who had supernaturally intervened to save us from execution was now calling us to risk everything again to reach other Muslims with his love.

My sister’s heart was particularly burdened for Muslim women who suffered under religious systems that devalued their worth and potential.

Having experienced firsthand the crushing weight of Islamic laws treatment of women, she understood the desperation that drove so many to suicide and despair.

Her calling was to show these women that God valued them as daughters, not just potential mothers or servants.

I enrolled in theological seminary while my sister began training with international ministries that specialized in reaching Islamic populations.

We both knew that effective ministry to Muslims required deep understanding of both Islamic theology and Christian apologetics.

Our former devotion to Islam, which had once been our greatest pride, become our most valuable asset in understanding how to reach other committed Muslims.

Three years after our conversion, my sister married David, a Christian doctor from London.

He loved her unconditionally, never concerned about her past struggles with infertility.

Despite medical reports declaring permanent baronness, she conceived their first child naturally.

She has since born healthy children, proving God’s power over medical impossibilities.

David had heard our testimony at a Christian conference and been deeply moved by my sister’s faith and courage.

His love for her was completely different from Hassan’s conditional affection.

Where her first marriage had been arranged according to Islamic law for financial and social benefit, this union was based on mutual faith in Christ and genuine emotional connection.

The medical impossibility of her pregnancies became a powerful testimony to God’s healing power and perfect timing.

The same reproductive system that Islamic courts had declared cursed by Allah proved perfectly capable of bearing children when blessed by the God of Christianity.

Her first pregnancy announcement brought tears of joy and vindication.

After years of medical despair, each of her four children became living proof that God’s plans are higher than human understanding and that his timing is perfect.

The woman who had nearly been executed for infertility became a mother whose children would grow up knowing the true God rather than the false deity of Islam.

Her story of baronness turned to fruitfulness became a powerful metaphor for spiritual transformation.

We began recording our conversion story for secret distribution throughout Saudi Arabia.

Social media allowed us to share the gospel despite government censorship and religious persecution.

My royal title gave our message credibility among Saudis who normally dismissed Christian witness.

Thousands of Muslims contacted us privately questioning their faith after hearing our testimony.

Our early evangelistic efforts focused on creating digital content that could penetrate Saudi Arabia’s strict internet censorship.

We worked with technology experts who specialized in circumventing government firewalls, ensuring our testimonies could reach Muslims living under oppressive regimes.

The irony wasn’t lost on us that we were using Western technology to bring the gospel back to our homeland.

The response to our online ministry was overwhelming and encouraging.

Private messages poured in from across the Islamic world.

Saudis questioning uh Islamic laws harshness.

Iranians doubting the Quran’s claims about Jesus.

Pakistanis seeking alternatives to religious extremism.

Many shared their own doubts about Islam while expressing fear about the the consequences of conversion.

My royal background proved invaluable in these conversations.

When a Pakistani businessman or Iranian student received a message from someone they knew had been raised in the heart of Islamic Orthodoxy, they listened with attention they would never give to Western missionaries.

Our testimony couldn’t be dismissed as uh the product of ignorance about Islam or cultural imperialism.

Through church networks, we met dozens of former Muslims who had encountered Jesus Christ.

Many had faced similar family rejection, death threats, and permanent exile for their faith.

We started a support ministry for Saudi converts providing emotional, practical, and financial help.

Seeing others transformed by the same Jesus who saved us continually confirmed our testimonies truth.

The underground network of Muslim converts we discovered in London was larger and more organized than we had imagined.

Believers from every Islamic nation met regularly for fellowship, prayer, and mutual encouragement.

Their stories of divine intervention, miraculous escapes, and supernatural encounters with Jesus paralleled our own experience in remarkable ways.

Our ministry expanded to include practical support for new converts who often arrived in Western countries with nothing but their faith.

We helped arrange housing, legal assistance, job training and uh psychological counseling for those traumatized by persecution.

The financial resources we had lost in Saudi Arabia were replaced by God’s provision through generous Christian supporters.

The testimonies we collected from other converts became powerful tools for evangelizing Muslims still trapped in Islamic countries.

when Iranian believers shared stories of of Jesus appearing to them in dreams or when Pakistani converts testified about miraculous healings.

These accounts carried credibility that academic arguments could never match.

Our ministry focuses on showing Muslims the fundamental flaws in Islamic doctrine.

We demonstrate how the Quran contradicts itself on crucial issues like Jesus’s identity.

Islamic laws harshness toward women exemplified by my sisters near execution reveals its human origin.

Only Christianity offers the perfect balance of justice and mercy found in Jesus Christ.

Our apologetic approach emphasized logical contradictions within Islamic theology rather than emotional appeals or cultural arguments.

The Quran’s denial of Jesus’s crucifixion contradicted unanimous historical evidence from Christian, Jewish, and secular sources.

Muhammad’s moral failures documented in Islamic literature stood in stark contrast to Jesus’s perfect life and uh teachings.

The treatment of women under Islamic law became one of our most effective uh evangelistic themes.

My sister’s near execution for infertility exemplified the systems inherent cruelty toward those Allah supposedly loved.

The contrast with Jesus’s treatment of women as recorded in the Gospels revealed the vast difference between human religious systems and divine love.

We developed detailed comparisons between Islamic and Christian concepts of God, salvation and eternal destiny where Allah remained distant and unknowable.

Jesus had made the father accessible through personal relationship where Islam offered only uncertain hope based on good works.

Christianity provided assurance based on Christ’s finished work.

If you are Muslim listening to this testimony, I understand the resistance you feel.

I was more devout than most.

Spent more time in prayer and Quranic study than required.

Yet all that religious devotion could not save my sister or bring genuine peace to our hearts.

Only Jesus Christ had the power to intervene supernaturally and transform our lives completely.

Speaking directly to Muslim listeners, I want you to understand that my criticism of Islam comes not from ignorance or cultural bias, but from intimate knowledge of its teachings and the painful experience of its applications.

I memorized the entire Quran, studied hadith collections for decades, and lived according to Islamic law more strictly than most practicing Muslims.

Yet, when that religious system was tested in the crucible of real crisis, it produced only cruelty and injustice.

Islamic law demanded my sister’s death for circumstances beyond her control.

Islamic theology offered no hope for divine intervention or mercy.

The Allah I had worshiped my entire life remained silent while innocent blood was about to be shed in his name.

The Jesus I had been taught to dismiss as merely a prophet proved to be the only source of supernatural power and unconditional love when we needed salvation most.

His intervention wasn’t gradual or subtle, but immediate and unmistakable.

The same divine authority that calmed storms and raised the dead 2,000 years ago operated with identical power in our modern crisis.

Islamic Sharia demanded my sister’s death for circumstances completely beyond her control.

Christian grace offered her forgiveness, healing, unconditional love, and supernatural intervention.

Instead, religious courts declared her cursed by Allah.

Jesus declared her beloved by God.

Ask yourself this question.

Which system truly represents the character of a loving creator? The contrast between Islamic justice and the Christian grace became the cornerstone of our evangelistic message.

Islamic law condemned the innocent while protecting the guilty.

Christian grace forgave the guilty while vindicating the innocent.

Islamic courts served human prejudices while claiming divine authority.

Christian mercy reflected God’s actual character as revealed through Jesus Christ.

No human power could have produced the supernatural storm that stopped the execution.

No earthly explanation accounts for our miraculous escape through airport security.

My sister’s eventual pregnancy after medical reports of permanent infertility proves God’s healing power.

Look inside your own heart right now.

What evidence would convince you that Jesus is real? The miracles we witnessed weren’t ancient stories requiring faith to believe, but contemporary events with hundreds of witnesses and documentary evidence.

Weather records from that day confirmed the impossible meteorological conditions.

Airport security footage captured our unexplained passage through multiple checkpoints.

Medical records documented my sister’s transformation from permanent barrenness to healthy fertility.

These weren’t subjective spiritual experiences that could be explained away as psychological phenomena, but objective interventions in the physical world that defied natural explanation.

The same Jesus who performed miracles in first century Palestine demonstrated identical power in 21st century Saudi Arabia when his children cried out for help.

Don’t wait until you face an impossible crisis to cry out to Jesus for help.

He is calling your name right now, offering the same salvation and transformation he gave us.

Islamic submission brings fear and uncertainty.

Christian faith brings peace and assurance.

You can know with certainty that your sins are forgiven and your eternity is secure.

My name is Aloudin and I was once a Saudi prince who would have died defending Islam.

Now I am a son of the King of Kings who lives to proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord.

My sister was sentenced to death by Islamic law but saved by Christian grace.

We lost our earthly kingdom but gained citizenship in God’s eternal kingdom.

Every day we work to share the gospel with Muslims still trapped in spiritual darkness.

Our testimony proves that no one is too devoted to Islam to be reached by Christ’s love.

We pray for the day when Saudi Arabia itself will hear and respond to the gospel message.

Until then, we will continue proclaiming that Jesus saves completely and loves unconditionally.

Islamic law condemns.

Christian grace redeems and restores.

Allah demands perfect obedience.

Jesus offers perfect righteousness as a free gift.

Muhammad pointed toward a distant God.

Jesus is God who came near to save us.

Choose today whom you will serve.