My name is Prince Rashid bin Abdulaziz also and I am a member of one of the most powerful royal families on earth, the house of Sod, rulers of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

On March 15th, 2023, I was drugged in my own palace, transported across the world in secret, and deposited under a false identity in Kot the Tentro de Confinto del Terrorismo, a prison in El Salvador designed to hold 40,000 of the most dangerous criminals on the planet.

No one knew I was there.

My family had announced my death and held a funeral for an empty coffin.

I was erased from existence, condemned to suffer indefinitely in a living hell worse than any execution.

My crime, reading a Bible, and believing that Jesus Christ is the son of God.

But what my family did not understand, what the corrupt officials who arranged my disappearance could never have anticipated, is that the Jesus I followed into that prison followed me there as well.

and what he did inside those walls shook hardened murderers to their knees and eventually shook the entire prison system of El Salvador.

This is my testimony.

I was born into the house of Saud, the ruling dynasty of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, a family whose wealth is measured in hundreds of billions of dollars and whose influence extends to every corner of the globe.

My father, Prince Abdulaziz, was a senior member of the royal council with direct access to the king himself.

A man whose word could move markets, topple governments, and determine the fate of nations.

I grew up in palaces that most people only see in magazines, surrounded by servants who anticipated my every need.

Educated by the finest tutors money could command and groomed for a life of privilege that few humans have ever experienced.

But what I am about to share with you is how all of that meant nothing compared to what I discovered.

And how my discovery led me to a living hell called Sakut, the world’s highest security prison, where Jesus Christ himself intervened in ways that shook hardened criminals to their knees.

My childhood was a carefully orchestrated performance designed to produce a perfect Saudi prince who would bring honor to the also name and uphold the traditions of our ancestors.

I was taught to pray five times daily before I could read memorizing Arabic prayers and Quranic verses that I recited with mechanical precision even when I did not understand their meaning.

I wore the finest traditional garments, learned the protocols of royal interaction, and understood from my earliest years that I was different from ordinary people, blessed by Allah, chosen by birth, destined for greatness within the kingdom my family ruled.

My mother, Princess Noir, was gentle and loving, but always deferred to my father in all significant matters.

She taught me to be kind to servants and generous to the poor.

But she also taught me never to question the faiths or traditions that governed every aspect of our existence.

My father was a different presence entirely.

Commanding, powerful, and absolutely certain of his place in the world and the rightness of everything he believed.

He ruled our household with the same authority he exercised in government councils, expecting obedience without question and punishing any deviation from his expectations with cold fury that could last for weeks.

He believed that Islam was the final and perfect revelation of Allah, that Muhammad was the greatest prophet who ever lived, and that our family had a sacred responsibility to defend and promote the faith throughout the world.

He funded mosques, sponsored Islamic education, and used his influence to advance religious causes he considered essential to the kingdom’s identity.

I admired and feared him in equal measure.

never daring to disappoint him, never imagining that one day I would become his greatest shame.

I had one older brother named Faizal who was everything my father wanted in an air, ruthless in business, devout in religion, and utterly loyal to family honor above all other considerations.

Faizal and I were never close.

Our relationship defined by competition rather than affection.

Each of us vying for our father’s approval in ways that left little room for genuine brotherhood.

He was groomed for leadership in the family’s business empire.

While I was directed toward diplomatic and academic pursuits, my father believing that my personality was better suited for representing the kingdom in international circles than for the cutthroat negotiations that built our wealth.

I did not resent this distinction because it gave me opportunities that would ultimately change everything.

opportunities to travel, to study abroad, and to encounter ideas that my father never intended for me to discover.

When I was 18 years old, my father sent me to Oxford University in England to complete my education among the British elite.

He believed that exposure to western academic traditions would sharpen my intellect and prepare me for diplomatic service without corrupting my Islamic faith, provided I maintained proper religious discipline and avoided the moral temptations that had destroyed other Saudi students abroad.

I arrived in Oxford with a personal imam assigned to monitor my spiritual development, a generous allowance that could support multiple families, and explicit instructions to represent the kingdom with dignity while mastering whatever knowledge the west could offer.

I expected to find a world of advanced technology and intellectual achievement wrapped in moral decay and spiritual bankruptcy.

What I found was far more complex and ultimately far more dangerous to the carefully constructed worldview I had carried from Riyad.

The years at Oxford exposed me to diversity of thought I had never imagined possible within my sheltered Saudi existence.

I studied philosophy alongside students from every religious background and none debating questions about truth, meaning and existence that my Islamic education had taught me were already settled beyond dispute.

I encountered Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, atheists, and seekers of every variety.

Each of them thoughtful and sincere in their beliefs.

Each of them challenging my assumption that only Muslims possessed genuine understanding of spiritual reality.

I met professors who questioned everything and students who believed nothing.

Both groups forcing me to examine my faith with a rigor I had never previously applied.

I maintained my Islamic practices outwardly, praying and fasting as expected, but inwardly I was accumulating questions that grew heavier with each passing semester.

Despite the intellectual ferment of Oxford, I returned to Saudi Arabia after graduation with my faith apparently intact and my loyalty to family unquestioned.

I took up a position in the diplomatic service as my father had planned, traveling the world as a representative of the kingdom, attending conferences and receptions where I performed my role with practiced elegance.

I married a woman selected by my parents, a distant cousin named Ila, who was beautiful and compliant, but with whom I shared little genuine intimacy.

I acquired properties, investments, and all the trappings of success that my position entitled me to possess.

From the outside, I was the model of a Sud prince fulfilling his destiny.

But inside, the emptiness I had felt since childhood was growing rather than shrinking.

a void that no amount of wealth, achievement, or religious ritual seemed capable of filling.

The questions that had been planted at Oxford continued growing in the privacy of my thoughts during the years that followed my return.

I found myself unable to silence the doubts that arose during my prayers, wondering whether Allah truly heard me or whether I was simply speaking into emptiness.

I observed the religious leaders my father funded and noticed how many of them seemed more interested in power and prestige than in genuine spiritual devotion.

I watched my fellow royals pursue pleasure and corruption while maintaining facads of Islamic piety.

And I wondered whether the faith I had been raised to revere was anything more than a cultural system designed to preserve power and control behavior.

These thoughts were dangerous, potentially deadly, in a kingdom where questioning Islam could carry severe consequences.

So I buried them deep and told no one what was stirring beneath my polished exterior.

The turning point came gradually, not through a single dramatic event, but through countless small moments that accumulated into an irresistible current pulling me toward truth I had never sought.

It began with internet searches conducted late at night when my wife was sleeping and my servants had retired.

explorations into religious questions that my Islamic education had forbidden me to ask.

I read testimonies of Muslims who had left Islam for other faiths, expecting to find confused people deceived by Western propaganda, but instead encountering stories of profound transformation that resonated with my own unspoken longings.

I studied the claims of Christianity with academic rigor, comparing the Bible to the Quran, examining historical evidence, and following arguments wherever they led.

Each investigation left me more unsettled and more hungry for answers that my childhood faith could not provide.

Then the dreams began.

The first one came on a night when I had fallen asleep reading an online article about Jesus.

My tablet still glowing on the pillow beside me.

I found myself standing in a garden filled with light facing a man dressed in white whose face radiated a peace I had never encountered in my waking life.

He did not speak aloud.

Yet I heard his voice clearly inside my heart.

Calling my name, not my formal royal title, but my name spoken with an intimacy that made me feel utterly known and completely loved.

I woke with tears streaming down my face, unsure whether I had experienced a genuine encounter or merely a vivid dream triggered by my late night reading.

But the feeling lingered for days, a warmth in my chest that no amount of rational analysis could explain away or diminish.

The dreams continued, appearing several times each month over the following year, each one leaving me more convinced that something real was reaching out to me through channels my Islamic worldview could not accommodate.

The figure in white never identified himself directly, but I knew with growing certainty who he was.

He was Jesus, not the prophet Isa of Islamic teaching, but someone far greater.

Someone whose presence communicated love and authority that transcended anything I had experienced in decades of Muslim devotion.

I began researching how to obtain a Bible, knowing that possessing such a book was dangerous in Saudi Arabia, but unable to continue my spiritual journey without access to the text that Christians considered sacred.

Through an encrypted online service that I later learned was operated by missionaries, I arranged for a Bible to be smuggled into the kingdom and delivered to a private mailbox.

I had established for personal correspondence.

The night I first held that Bible in my hands was the night everything changed irreversibly within my soul.

I opened it to the Gospel of John as I had been instructed by online guides for seekers from Muslim backgrounds.

And I began reading words that pierced through every defense I had constructed over 32 years of Islamic conditioning.

In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God.

The claims I encountered in those pages were not subtle or ambiguous.

They declared that Jesus was divine, that he had died for human sins, that he had risen from death, and that eternal life was available to anyone who trusted in him.

I read for hours that first night, barely noticing when dawn began lightening the sky outside my window, consumed by a hunger that had finally found food capable of satisfying it.

Over the following months, I devoured the Bible in secret while outwardly maintaining my role as a devout Muslim prince.

I prayed to Jesus in the privacy of my locked study, confessing my belief in him as Lord and Savior, asking him to forgive my sins and transform my heart.

I connected with underground Christian communities through encrypted messaging applications, finding fellowship with believers who understood the dangers I faced and who encouraged me with scripture and prayer.

I was living a double life that I knew could not continue indefinitely.

But I was not yet ready to face the consequences of exposing my secret faith.

I told myself I was being wise and strategic, waiting for the right moment to make my confession public.

But deep inside I knew I was simply afraid.

Afraid of my father, afraid of my brother, afraid of a system that that had killed countless people for the very beliefs I now held.

I had no idea that my moment of decision was approaching faster than I could imagine or that my family’s response would be more horrifying than anything I had ever conceived.

The months following my secret conversion to Christianity were the most spiritually rich and emotionally exhausting period of my entire existence.

Every day I walked a tight rope between two identities that could not coexist.

The public prince who performed his Islamic duties with apparent devotion and the hidden believer who whispered prayers to Jesus in locked rooms and read scripture by the light of his phone beneath bed covers.

I attended Friday prayers at the mosque with my father and brothers, reciting words I no longer believed while my heart silently cried out to the true God I had discovered in the pages of my forbidden Bible.

I hosted Ramadan gatherings and made generous contributions to Islamic charities while secretly fasting for different reasons entirely seeking closeness with Jesus rather than fulfilling religious obligation.

The duplicity weighed heavily on my conscience.

But I convinced myself that survival required patience and wisdom.

My connection with the underground Christian community grew deeper during this period, providing fellowship I desperately needed to sustain my isolated faith.

Through encrypted messaging applications and carefully arranged voice calls, I communed with believers scattered across Saudi Arabia and the broader Middle East.

Former Muslims like myself who had encountered Jesus and now lived in constant danger because of their faith.

They taught me how to survive as a secret believer, sharing practical wisdom accumulated through years of hiding in plain sight.

They warned me about the signs that might indicate discovery was imminent and coached me on how to respond to questions designed to expose hidden Christians.

They prayed for me with a fervor that moved me to tears.

Strangers who had become family through our shared love for Jesus and our shared vulnerability in a kingdom that wanted us dead.

I also began exploring online resources that deepened my understanding of Christian theology and practice.

I listened to sermons by pastors from around the world, their voices speaking truth into my heart through earbuds that no one else could hear.

I studied apologetics materials that equipped me to understand why Christianity was true and how to answer objections that might arise in my own mind or from others who might eventually learn my secret.

I discovered worship music that stirred my soul in ways Islamic nasheeds had never accomplished.

songs about grace and redemption and the overwhelming love of a God who had died for his enemies.

My faith was growing stronger with each passing day, roots extending deeper into soil that the surface performance of my life could not reflect.

But I was not as careful as I should have been, and my confidence in my ability to maintain the deception indefinitely was dangerously misplaced.

I had grown comfortable retrieving my Bible from its hiding place in a locked compartment of my study, reading for extended periods when I believed I would not be disturbed.

I had become accustomed to praying aloud in whispers when Ila was away visiting her family.

My voice soft but audible within the walls of my private chambers.

I had accumulated notes and journal entries reflecting on scripture passages, materials that would be damning if discovered by anyone who reported to my father.

I thought I had been meticulous in covering my tracks, but I had underestimated the surveillance that surrounded every member of the royal family and the loyalty that servants felt toward their ultimate masters rather than their immediate employers.

The servant who destroyed my life was named Hassan.

A man who had worked in my household for over a decade and whom I had trusted it with access to my private spaces for routine cleaning and maintenance.

I later learned that Hassan had noticed small irregularities in my behavior over several months.

Books that seemed out of place, a lock on a desk drawer that had not existed before.

patterns of isolation that suggested I was hiding something significant.

He had not initially suspected anything as dramatic as apostasy.

He simply believed I might be concealing a romantic affair or financial impropriety that my father would want to know about.

His loyalty to the broader also family exceeded any loyalty he felt toward me personally and he had been quietly investigating my secrets in hopes of gaining favor with more powerful members of the dynasty.

The morning of my discovery began like any other morning with prayers and breakfast and the ordinary routines that structured my daily existence.

I left for a series of diplomatic meetings that would occupy me until late afternoon, confident that my secrets remain secure in the locked compartments and hidden folders where I had stored them.

I did not know that Hassan had obtained a duplicate key to my study during my absence several weeks earlier or that he had been systematically searching my private spaces whenever opportunity presented itself.

I did not know that this particular morning with me safely away and my wife visiting relatives in another city would be the morning Hassan finally found what he had been seeking.

I did not know that by sunset my entire world would be shattered beyond any possibility of repair.

Hassan discovered my Bible first, hidden in a locked drawer beneath layers of diplomatic documents and personal correspondence.

The site of the Christian scripture confirmed suspicions he had not previously dared to voice, and he continued searching with renewed urgency for additional evidence.

He found my journal filled with reflections on New Testament passages, prayers addressed to Jesus, and confessions of faith that left no ambiguity about my spiritual transformation.

He found printed materials from Christian websites that I had been foolish enough to retain rather than destroy after reading.

He found a note from my encrypted conversations with other believers, messages I had transcribed for easier study and then failed to properly dispose of.

By the time he finished his search, Hassan possessed enough evidence to destroy not just my reputation, but my life, and he wasted no time delivering his findings to the one person whose judgment I feared above all others.

I returned home that evening to find my father waiting in my study, seated behind my own desk with Hassan standing nervously in the corner and my brother Faizal positioned by the door like a guard preventing escape.

The items Hassan had discovered were spread across the desk surface.

my Bible, my journal, the printed materials, the transcribed messages, a damning exhibition that left no room for denial or explanation.

My father’s face displayed a fury I had never witnessed in all my years as his son, a cold and controlled rage that was far more terrifying than any explosive outburst could have been.

He did not shout or threaten when he spoke.

His voice was quiet, almost conversational, which somehow made his words more devastating than any screamed accusation could have achieved.

He asked me a single question, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that seemed to penetrate my very soul.

He asked whether the items on the desk were mine, and whether I had abandoned Islam for the Christian religion.

The question hung in the air between us, demanding an answer that would determine everything that followed.

I could have lied.

I could have claimed the materials were research for a diplomatic project or that they had been planted by enemies seeking to discredit me.

Perhaps my father would have accepted such explanations, grasping at any alternative to the truth that threatened to disgrace our family.

But as I stood there facing his terrible gaze, I remembered the words of Jesus that I had read just days before.

Words about confessing him before men and the consequences of denying him.

I remembered the believers who were praying for me even at that moment trusting me to stand firm when the test finally came.

I told my father the truth.

I admitted that the Bible was mine, that the journal contained my genuine reflections and that I had indeed come to believe that Jesus Christ was the son of God and the savior of the world.

I told him that I had not sought this transformation, that it had come to me through dreams and study that I could not ignore and that my faith in Jesus was now the most important reality of my existence.

I told him that I loved him and respected him, but that I could not deny what I knew to be true simply to preserve my position or avoid his anger.

I spoke calmly and clearly, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice, even as my heart pounded with terror at what my confession would unleash.

When I finished speaking, silence filled the room for a long moment before my father responded.

What followed was not the explosion of rage I had anticipated, but something far more calculated and chilling.

My father stood slowly from behind the desk and walked toward me, stopping close enough that I could smell the odd fragrance he always wore.

He told me that I was no longer his son, that the man he had raised had died the moment he embraced the Christian blasphemy, and that the creature standing before him was merely a shell that needed to be disposed of properly.

He explained that a public execution would bring scandal upon the family and invite international criticism that would complicate important business and diplomatic relationships.

Therefore, a different solution had been devised, one that would remove me from existence without creating the complications that an official apostasy case would generate.

He told me that by tomorrow I would have vanished from the face of the earth and no one who mattered would ever know what had truly become of me.

I did not fully understand what he meant until hands seized me from behind and a cloth soaked with chemicals was pressed against my face.

I struggled briefly before the substance overwhelmed my senses.

darkness rushing in from the edges of my vision until everything disappeared into unconsciousness.

My last coherent thought was a prayer, not for a rescue, but for strength to face whatever awaited me on the other side of this darkness.

I had known that discovery would bring severe consequences, but I had imagined trial, imprisonment, perhaps even execution in a manner consistent with the Saudi legal procedures.

I had not imagined that my own father would choose to erase my existence entirely, disposing of me through channels so dark and corrupt that my fate would remain forever hidden from the world that knew me only as a prince.

I have no memory of the journey that followed, only fragments of sensation that surfaced occasionally through the chemical fog that kept me subdued.

Movement, voices speaking languages I did not recognize, the roar of aircraft engines, the jolt of vehicles traversing rough roads.

I do not know how many days passed while I was transported from Saudi Arabia to a destination my family had selected precisely because it would be impossible for anyone to find me or rescue me from its grip.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware enough to pray and sometimes too deeply sedated to form coherent thoughts.

The darkness that surrounded me felt absolute, as though I had been swallowed by a void that existed outside of normal space and time.

But even in that darkness, I sensed that I was not alone.

That a presence I had come to know through dreams and scripture was traveling with me toward whatever nightmare awaited at journeys end.

When full consciousness finally returned, I found myself lying on a cold concrete floor in a space so dark I could not determine its dimensions.

My head throbbed with chemical residue and my body achd from what must have been days of immobility.

I was wearing rough clothing I did not recognize.

my tailored suit and silk undergarments replaced by coarse fabric that scratched against my skin.

I had no identification, no money, no phone, nothing that connected me to the prince I had been just days before.

I tried to stand but found my legs weak and unsteady, forcing me to remain on the floor until my strength gradually returned.

The air smelled wrong, thick with human bodies and desperation, carrying notes of sweat and fear and suffering that I had never encountered in my sheltered existence.

I called out into the darkness, asking where I was and what was happening.

But the only response was distant sounds of clanging metal and shouting voices in Spanish.

Spanish.

The realization struck me with fresh horror as my mind processed the linguistic evidence.

I was not in Saudi Arabia or any of the Middle Eastern nations where my family’s influence might still reach.

I was somewhere in Latin America, thousands of miles from anyone who knew my true identity, deposited in a location selected precisely because it would be impossible for me to escape or be found.

As my eyes adjusted to the minimal light filtering through small openings in what I now realized were cellbarss, I began to discern my surroundings.

A massive space packed with human bodies, dozens of men in identical white clothing with shaved heads.

The architecture of incarceration designed for maximum containment with minimum humanity.

I had heard of this place through news reports that had reached even Saudi Arabia.

I was in the sec the centro confinto delurismo the prison that El Salvador had built to hold 40,000 of the most dangerous criminals on earth.

A facility designed to be inescapable.

A place where men entered and never left.

My family had not merely disowned me.

They had condemned me to a living death worse than any execution, erasing my existence while ensuring I would suffer for years in conditions designed to break the strongest human spirits.

Somewhere in the corrupt networks that connected Saudi wealth to global criminal enterprises, arrangements had been made to insert me into this facility under a false identity registered not as a Saudi prince but as a foreign terrorist whose case file was fabricated to justify maximum security detention.

No one in SEC knew who I really was.

No one in the outside world knew where I had gone.

My father had announced to Saudi society that I had died in a private accident holding a funeral for a coffin that contained nobody, mourning publicly for the son he had secretly condemned to suffer indefinitely in the darkest hole on earth.

I was completely alone, utterly forgotten, and facing an existence that seemed impossible to survive.

But even as despair threatened to crush me beneath its weight, a small flame flickered in the darkness of my heart, the same presence I had felt during my transport.

The same Jesus who had appeared in my dreams and called me by name.

I was in the worst place imaginable, stripped of everything that had defined my identity, surrounded by men who would kill me without hesitation if they perceived weakness.

Yet, I was not truly alone.

The god who had found me in a Saudi palace had followed me into a Salvadoran hill hole.

And somehow through means I could not imagine he was going to prove himself faithful even here.

I did not know how long I would remain in secut or whether I would ever escape its walls.

But I knew with certainty that Jesus had not brought me to faith only to abandon me in this darkness.

Whatever purpose he had for allowing this nightmare, I would trust him to reveal it in his time.

The first hours of consciousness in secret introduced me to a reality so far removed from anything I had previously experienced that my mind struggled to process what my senses were reporting.

The cell I occupied was designed to hold perhaps 40 men, but contained at least 80 human bodies packed together on concrete floors and metal bunks with barely enough space to lie down without touching the person beside you.

The air was thick and stale, recycled through inadequate ventilation systems that could not keep pace with the biological output of so many confined bodies.

The smell was overwhelming.

Sweat, urine, feces, and something else I could not identify, but would later recognize as the scent of despair itself.

The alactory signature of men who had abandoned all hope.

Fluorescent lights buzzed constantly overhead, never turning off, eliminating any distinction between day and night and ensuring that sleep remained perpetually shallow and unsatisfying.

The men around me were unlike anyone I had encountered in my privileged existence as a Saudi prince.

They were gang members, murderers, rapists, and traffickers.

The most dangerous criminals in El Salvador, rounded up during the government’s aggressive crackdown and deposited in this facility designed to remove them permanently from society.

Their bodies were covered with tattoos that told stories of violence and allegiance, markings that identified their gang affiliations, and criminal accomplishments with terrifying specificity.

Many bore the distinctive facial tattoos of MS-13 and Bario 18, rival organizations whose members had slaughtered each other on the streets of San Salvador and were now forced to coexist in cells where old hatreds simmerred beneath the surface of enforced compliance.

They looked at me with suspicion and predatory assessment, recognizing immediately that I did not belong among them and calculating what advantage my obvious vulnerability might provide.

I learned quickly that survival and sec required understanding and navigating a complex hierarchy that the guards tolerated as long as it did not produce visible disorder.

Each cell had its own power structure dominated by inmates whose reputations from the streets translated into authority within these walls.

New arrivals were tested immediately, challenged to demonstrate whether they would submit to existing leadership or attempt to carve out independent positions that might threaten established arrangements.

Those who fought back earned respect but also invited escalating confrontation.

Those who submitted too easily became targets for exploitation that could include theft, assault, and worse.

The narrow path between these extremes required constant vigilance and careful calibration of every interaction with the dangerous men who surrounded me.

My first test came within hours of regaining full consciousness when a massive inmate with MS-13 tattoos covering his face and neck approached me with two companions flanking him like bodyguards.

He spoke in rapid Spanish that my limited language skills struggled to follow, demanding to know who I was, where I came from, and why I had been placed among them.

I understood enough to recognize that my answer would determine how I was treated in the days ahead.

I told him in broken Spanish that I was nobody, a foreign prisoner accused of crimes I did not commit, sent here by mistake through bureaucratic confusion that no one would bother to correct.

I said I wanted no trouble, sought no position, and would respect whatever rules govern life in this cell.

The man studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching for deception or weakness, before turning away with a grunt that seemed to signal temporary acceptance, if not approval.

The daily routine of secot was designed to break the human spirit through monotony, deprivation, and absolute removal from everything that made life meaningful.

We were awakened at 5:00 in the morning by guards banging metal objects against the bars, forced to stand information for counts that could last an hour or more, while officials verified that no one had escaped or died during the night.

Breakfast consisted of small portions of rice and beans pushed through slots in the cell bars distributed by inmates whose loyalty to the guards earned them marginally better treatment than the rest of us received.

We remained locked in our cells for 23 hours each day.

The single hour of outdoor time divided among cell blocks in a rotation that meant weeks could pass between opportunities to see the sky.

The isolation from sunlight, nature, and any form of beauty was perhaps the most psychologically devastating aspect of our confinement.

Food was scarce and fights over.

Portions were common, the strong taking from the weak in a daily redistribution that left some men perpetually hungry while others maintained adequate nutrition through intimidation and violence.

Water was rationed and often contaminated, causing illness that spread rapidly through the overcrowded cells and received minimal medical attention.

The toilets were open pits in the corners of cells, offering no privacy and producing smells that became so constant that my nose eventually stopped registering them as abnormal.

Sleep was never truly restful because threats could emerge at any moment, requiring even unconscious minds to maintain vigilance against sudden violence.

The cumulative effect of these conditions was a systematic dismantling of human dignity that reduced men to survival instincts and little more.

I watched during those first weeks as my body and mind adapted to conditions that would have seemed impossible to endure from the comfort of my former life.

My hands soft from years of being served by others developed calluses and cuts from the rough surfaces that surrounded me.

My stomach, accustomed to gourmet cuisine prepared by professional chefs, learned to accept whatever meager nutrition was provided without complaint.

My nose trained to appreciate fine fragrances and aromatic delicacies became numb to smells that would have made me vomit in my previous existence.

My ears familiar with classical music and refined conversation adjusted to the constant cacophony of shouting, clanging and suffering that formed the soundsscape of secret.

I was becoming someone I had never imagined I could be.

Stripped of every external marker of identity and reduced to the essential question of whether I would survive another day.

The violence I witnessed during those early weeks would haunt my memories for the rest of my life.

Images of brutality that no amount of prayer or therapy would fully erase.

I saw men beaten unconscious for perceived disrespect.

Their bodies left bleeding on the concrete until guards eventually bothered to drag them to medical facilities that provided minimal care.

I saw improvised weapons fashioned from fragments of metal and plastic, blades that could open flesh as easily as any manufactured knife.

I saw alliances formed unbroken with lethal consequences, betrayals punished with methods that demonstrated creativity in cruelty that I had not known human beings possessed.

I learned to make myself small and unnoticeable, avoiding eye contact with dangerous men, surrendering whatever meager possessions might attract attention, accepting insults and minor assaults without response to avoid provoking escalation that could prove fatal.

Through all of this horror, I clung to my faith with desperation that surprised even myself.

I had no Bible in secret.

That precious book had been confiscated along with everything else that connected me to my former identity.

But I had memorized significant portions of scripture during my months of sacred study.

And these verses became my lifeline in the darkness.

I recited them silently during the endless hours of confinement, letting the words of Jesus wash over my wounded spirit like healing waters.

I prayed constantly, not formal prayers with prescribed words, but raw conversations with the God who had followed me into this pit.

I confessed my fears, my anger, my moments of doubt when despair whispered that he had abandoned me to suffer alone.

I asked for strength to survive another hour, another day, another week without surrendering to the hopelessness that consumed so many men around me.

The question that tormented me most during those early weeks was not whether I would survive, but why Jesus had allowed this to happen at all.

I had given my life to him in faith, trusting that he would protect and guide me even when my secret was discovered and my family turned against me.

I had expected persecution, perhaps imprisonment in Saudi Arabia, possibly even martyrdom that would end my earthly existence while securing my eternal destination.

But this this endless suffering in a foreign prison under a false identity with no possibility of rescue and no apparent purpose, this seemed cruer than any death could be.

I wrestled with God in my prayers, demanding explanations he did not provide, questioning his goodness in ways that frightened me with their honesty.

But even as I questioned, I could not deny the presence I still felt in my darkest moments.

The inexplicable peace that sometimes descended without warning, the conviction that I was not truly alone, despite every evidence suggesting otherwise.

Approximately 3 weeks after my arrival, something happened that began shifting my perspective on why I might have been brought to this place of suffering.

I was sitting against the wall of our cell during one of the rare quiet periods when most inmates were sleeping, silently reciting the 23rd Psalm to calm my troubled spirit.

A man I had not previously noticed slid closer to me, his movements cautious and his eyes checking to ensure no one was observing our interaction.

He was younger than most inmates, perhaps barely 20 years old.

With gang tattoos that covered his arms, but a face that still retained traces of the child he had been before the streets claimed him, he whispered a question that startled me with its directness.

He asked what I was saying when my lips moved without sound and whether I was praying to some god he did not know.

I hesitated before answering, uncertain whether this was a genuine inquiry or a trap designed to expose weakness that could be exploited.

But something in his eyes, a hunger I recognized from my own spiritual searching, convinced me to take the risk.

I told him I was reciting words from a book about a man named Jesus.

Words that gave me comfort in this place of darkness.

I told him that Jesus was not just a historical figure but a living God who had entered my life through dreams and study transforming everything.

I believed about myself and the world.

I told him that even here in sec separated from everyone who had ever loved me and condemned to suffer indefinitely, I was not alone because Jesus was present with me in ways I could not fully explain but could not deny.

The young man listened with an intensity that suggested my words were landing on soil, prepared to receive them.

His name was Miguel and uh his story broke my heart even as it opened doors I had not known existed.

He had joined MS-13 at 13 years old seeking the family and protection that his absent father and addicted mother could not provide.

He had committed acts of violence that still tormented him with guilt he could not escape.

crimes that had seemed necessary for survival, but that haunted his dreams with the faces of victims whose lives he had destroyed.

He had been arrested during the government crackdown and sentenced to secret without trial.

His youth offering no protection from a system designed to remove gang members from society permanently.

He expected to die in this prison either from violence or from the slow erosion of conditions that killed men gradually through neglect.

He had stopped hoping for anything beyond survival until he noticed a strange foreigner whose lips moved in silent prayer and whose eyes held something different from the despair that filled everyone else.

I shared the gospel with Miguel that night in whispered phrases, explaining as simply as I could the message that had transformed my own life.

I told him that God loved him despite everything he had done, that Jesus had died to pay the penalty for sins far worse than his, and that forgiveness and new life were available to anyone who would trust in Christ regardless of their past.

I told him that even in secot even condemned by human authorities to suffer indefinitely, he could find freedom in a relationship with the God who had created him and who had never stopped pursuing him through all the darkness of his young life.

Tears streamed down his tattooed face as he listened, defenses crumbling that had been constructed over years of violence and trauma.

Before we were interrupted by movement from other inmates, he asked me to teach him how to pray to this Jesus I was describing.

That conversation with Miguel was the first crack in the darkness that had seemed absoluten since my arrival in Sakot.

I began to glimpse a possible purpose behind my suffering.

Not punishment for my faith, but positioning for a ministry I could not have entered through any other means.

I was not merely a prisoner.

I was a missionary sent to the most unreachable people on earth.

Men so buried in violence and despair that no traditional evangelist could ever access them.

My identity as a Saudi prince meant nothing here.

But my identity as a follower of Jesus meant everything.

Had been stripped of wealth, status, family, and freedom precisely so that I could meet men like Miguel with nothing to offer except the same gospel that had saved me.

The realization did not eliminate my suffering, but it began transforming my understanding of why Jesus might have allowed it.

Over the following weeks, my relationship with Miguel deepened as I taught him what I knew about following Jesus in whispered conversations stolen during moments when guards were not watching.

He absorbed everything with the hunger of a man dying of thirst who had finally found water, asking questions that revealed both his ignorance and his genuine desire to understand.

He memorized scripture passages I taught him, reciting them back to me with a pronunciation that blended Spanish and Arabic in ways that would have been comical.

Under other circumstances, he began praying on his own awkward conversations with God that grew more natural as his confidence increased.

His transformation did not go unnoticed by others in our cell who observed changes in his demeanor that made no sense given the unchanging brutality of our circumstances.

Questions began arising from other inmates who had known Miguel before his transformation.

questions about why he seemed peaceful when he should be despairing and why he no longer participated in the petty cruelties that provided entertainment in our monotonous existence.

Why his eyes held something that looked almost like hope.

I answered cautiously at first, uncertain which inquiries were genuine and which might be traps set by those who would exploit any perceived weakness.

But as weeks became months, a small community began forming around the faith that Miguel and I shared.

Men whose spiritual hunger exceeded their fear of mockery or retaliation.

men desperate enough to consider that even here, even now, God might be reaching out to save them from more than physical imprisonment.

The guards noticed what was happening in our section of the prison, the unusual calm that had descended on a population known for constant tension and periodic explosion into violence.

They did not understand what was causing the change and their confusion produced alternating responses of suspicion and relief.

Some guards increased their surveillance expecting that the calm was a deception masking preparation for some coordinated action.

Others seem grateful for a section of the prison that required less intervention, allowing them to focus their limited energy on more volatile areas.

None of them suspected that the transformation they were witnessing was spiritual rather than strategic.

That a gospel message was spreading through whispered conversations and transformed lives in ways that no physical barrier could contain.

I had entered Sakut as a hidden prince condemned to anonymous suffering.

My true identity known only to the corrupt officials who had accepted Saudi money to make me disappear.

I was becoming around Miguel and me grew slowly during the months that followed.

Each new member representing a victory against the darkness that defined life in Tikot.

We could not gather openly or announce our faith publicly.

So, we developed systems of communication that allowed us to recognize one another and share moments of fellowship without attracting dangerous attention.

A certain way of touching the chest during morning counts became our silent greeting, an acknowledgment of shared faith that guards interpreted as nothing more than a nervous habit.

Whispered phrases from scripture passed between believers during the chaos of meal distribution.

Encouragement exchanged in seconds that sustained us through hours of isolation.

We learned to worship with our eyes, to pray without moving our lips, to commune with God and one another through channels that required no physical expression that might be observed and punished.

The transformation in those who came to faith was unmistakable to anyone paying attention.

Though most inmates and guards attributed the changes to psychological coping mechanisms rather than spiritual rebirth.

Men who had been consumed by rage and bitterness began displaying patience that made no sense given our circumstances.

Former gang rivals who should have been planning violence against one another instead exchanged nods of recognition that signaled a peace transcending their bloody history.

Inmates who had terrorized weaker prisoners began protecting the vulnerable instead of exploiting them.

Their predatory instincts replaced by something that resembled compassion.

The atmosphere in our section of the prison shifted gradually, tension giving way to a calm that felt almost supernatural because it had no natural explanation.

Carlos Mendes was the most significant convert during this period.

A man whose transformation would eventually prove crucial to everything that followed.

Carlos had been a senior leader in MS-13, responsible for operations that had generated millions of dollars through drug trafficking and extortion while leaving countless bodies in their wake.

His reputation preceded him into second where even the most hardened inmates treated him with difference that bordered on fear.

He was approaching 50 years old.

His body covered with tattoos that documented decades of violence.

His eyes carrying the cold emptiness of a man who had killed so often that death had become routine.

When Carlos began observing the changes in our section of the prison, his attention felt like the gaze of a predator assessing potential prey.

I expected Carlos to view our growing community as a threat to his authority and to respond with the violence that had defined his entire adult life.

Instead, he approached me one evening with a question that revealed something I had not anticipated.

Spiritual curiosity masked behind decades of brutality.

He asked me whether I truly believed the things I was telling other inmates, whether I genuinely thought that a god existed who could forgive men like him for the things they had done.

His voice carried no mockery or aggression, only a weariness that suggested he was approaching the end of something and searching for an alternative to the emptiness he had found at the conclusion of his violent journey.

I recognized the hunger behind his question because I had felt it myself in the years before I discovered Jesus.

I told Carlos my story that night, holding nothing back, describing my life as a Saudi prince with wealth and power beyond imagination and the emptiness that had consumed me despite having everything the world could offer.

I told him about my secret search for meaning, the dreams of Jesus that had haunted and attracted me, the discovery of the Bible, and the transformation that had followed.

I told him about my family’s betrayal, the secret arrangement that had transported me across the world, and the false identity under which I had been imprisoned in this facility designed to erase dangerous men from existence.

I told him that despite losing everything, my family, my country, my identity, my freedom, I had found something in Jesus that was worth more than all of it combined.

Carlos listened without interrupting, his hardened face revealing nothing of what was happening beneath the surface.

When I finished speaking, Carlos was silent for a long moment before responding with words that stunned me with their vulnerability.

He told me that he had killed his first man at 14 years old and had lost count of of how many had followed in the decades since.

He told me that he had ordered deaths, tortured enemies, and destroyed families without feeling anything except the cold satisfaction of maintaining power and eliminating threats.

He told me that he had never believed in any god because no god he could imagine would want anything to do with a monster like him.

But lately, he said something had been disturbing his sleep.

Dreams of blood that would not wash from his hands, faces of victims that would not stop accusing him, and occasionally a figure in white who looked at him with eyes that saw everything and still offered something that looked impossibly like love.

I recognized immediately what Carlos was describing because I had experienced similar dreams before my own conversion.

Jesus was pursuing this former gang leader just as he had pursued me.

Reaching into the darkness of a violent soul and offering light that seemed impossible but was undeniably real.

I explained to Carlos that the figure in his dreams was Jesus, that the conviction he was feeling was the Holy Spirit drawing him toward repentance and faith and that forgiveness was available to him regardless of how many sins stained his past.

I shared scripture passages about God’s mercy toward the worst sinners.

The Apostle Paul who had persecuted Christians.

King David who had murdered and committed adultery.

The thief on the cross who received paradise in his final moments.

I told Carlos that Jesus had not come for the righteous but for sinners and that no one was beyond the reach of his grace.

Carlos did not make a decision that night.

But I could see the battle raging behind his eyes as everything he had believed about himself and the world was challenged by possibilities he had never considered.

Over the following weeks, he sought me out repeatedly for conversations that continued exploring the claims of Christianity and their implications for a man with his history.

He asked questions that revealed genuine engagement rather than superficial curiosity.

Questions about justice and mercy.

About whether forgiveness eliminated consequences.

About how he could possibly face the God whose laws he had violated more thoroughly than almost anyone alive.

I answered as honestly as I could, acknowledging the mysteries I did not understand.

while affirming the truths I had experienced personally.

I prayed for Carlos constantly sensing that his conversion would mark a turning point not just for him but for everyone in SEC who knew his reputation.

The night Carlos surrendered his life to Jesus was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever witnessed in my journey of faith.

We were huddled in a corner of the cell during the brief period when most inmates slept and guards paid minimal attention to our section.

Carlos had been wrestling with conviction for days, unable to escape the weight of his sins or the pull of the grace being offered to him.

His voice broke as he began confessing crimes that would have earned him execution in any justice system.

atrocities that had never troubled his conscience until the Holy Spirit began awakening something long dormant in his soul.

He wept like a child as he named victim after victim, asking God to forgive offenses that seemed too terrible for any forgiveness to cover.

When he finally spoke the words of faith, acknowledging Jesus as Lord and Savior, trusting in his death and resurrection for salvation, something shifted in the spiritual atmosphere that even non-believers around us seemed to sense.

The change in Carlos following his conversion was so dramatic that it became impossible to ignore or explain through natural means.

This man who had inspired fear throughout secret was now displaying gentleness that seemed almost comical given his appearance and history.

He began using his influence to protect the small community of believers rather than threatening us with exposure or violence.

He started sharing his own testimony with former associates who had witnessed his brutality and could not understand the transformation they were now observing.

His conversion gave credibility to the gospel message in ways that my words alone could never have achieved.

If Jesus could save Carlos Mendes, then no one in this prison was beyond hope.

The underground fellowship grew more rapidly after Carlos joined us.

His protection creating space for faith to flourish where fear had previously reigned.

The community that developed during those months bore little resemblance to any church I had known or read about in my studies of Christianity.

We had no building, no formal leadership structure, no programs or budgets or organizational charts.

We had only one another the scripture passages we had collectively memorized and the presence of Jesus that manifested among us in ways that transcended the physical limitations of our confinement.

We prayed together in whispered phrases that guards mistook for private conversations.

We worshiped through hummed melodies that could have been anything but that we knew were hymns of praise.

We confessed sins to one another and spoke forgiveness in Jesus’s name, experiencing reconciliation that healed wounds accumulated over lifetimes of violence.

We were the church in its most primitive and purest form.

Believers gathered around Christ with nothing else to sustain us.

The spiritual growth I witnessed among these former criminals continually amazed me with its depth and authenticity.

Men who had never read a book in their lives now hungered for scripture with an intensity that put seminary students to shame.

Gang members who had defined themselves by hatred and violence now exhibited love for enemies that confounded everyone who observed them.

Murderers whose hands were stained with blood now lifted those same hands in prayer, interceding for victims and perpetrators alike with compassion that could only be supernatural in in origin.

The fruit of the spirit that Paul described in his letter to the Galatians, love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control was sprouting in in the most unlikely soil imaginable, proving that no heart was too hardened for God to cultivate.

I found myself being transformed by the community I was helping to lead.

My own faith deepening through the experience of shephering others in circumstances that stripped away every pretense and distraction.

The theological knowledge I had accumulated through online study was being refined into practical wisdom through application in situations no textbook had anticipated.

The pride I had carried as a prince was being crushed by the humility required to serve men who society had discarded as worthless.

The fear of man that had kept me hiding my faith in Saudi Arabia was being replaced by boldness forged in an environment where I had nothing left to lose.

I was becoming the disciple that Jesus had always intended me to be.

and the prison that was meant to destroy me was functioning as the crucible of my formation.

The guards could not understand what was happening in our section of Sut and their confusion produced responses that alternated between suspicious investigation and grateful acceptance.

Some officials became convinced that we were planning an escape or a riot, interpreting our calm as the eerie stillness before a storm of violence.

They increased surveillance, conducted random searches, and interrogated inmates about what was happening in our cell block.

But they found nothing incriminating.

No weapons, no plans, no structure that resembled traditional gang organization.

Other guards simply appreciated that our section required less intervention than the rest of the prison, allowing them to focus their limited energy on genuinely dangerous situations elsewhere in the facility.

They did not ask questions about causes because they did not want to disrupt whatever was producing such convenient results.

The warden of Secot, Diego Ramirez, eventually took personal interest in the unusual dynamics developing in our section of his prison.

Warden Ramirez was a hardened man whose career had been built on controlling the uncontrollable managing populations of violent criminals through a combination of overwhelming force and strategic manipulation.

He had designed sik to break men, to crush their spirits, destroy their identities, and render them incapable of the organized violence that had terrorized El Salvador for decades.

The transformation occurring in our cell block represented a challenge to everything he believed about human nature and the purpose of incarceration.

He began observing our section personally, trying to understand what was happening and whether it posed a threat to the order he had worked so hard to establish.

I knew that the warden’s attention could prove dangerous if he decided that our community needed to be disrupted for security reasons.

But I also sensed that God might be drawing Ramirez towards something he had never anticipated encountering in his career of controlling criminals.

I prayed for the warden and regularly asking Jesus to reveal himself to this man who held so much power over our daily existence.

I prayed that the transformation he was observing would raise questions in his mind that would eventually lead him toward faith.

I did not know whether these prayers would be answered or how God might choose to work in the heart of a man whose entire identity was built on the premise that people like us could never truly change.

But I trusted that nothing was impossible for the Jesus who had already done impossible things in this impossible place.

As months passed and our community continued growing, I began sensing that something significant was approaching.

A culmination that I could not predict, but that I felt building in the spiritual atmosphere like pressure before a storm.

The transformation in secut was becoming too pronounced to contain within our section of the prison.

Inmates in other cell blocks were hearing rumors about what was happening among us and asking questions that created opportunities for the gospel to spread beyond our immediate reach.

Guards who had witnessed the changes were talking to colleagues, spreading stories that filtered up through the chain of command to officials who had never paid attention to individual prisoners before.

The light that had begun as a small flame in my conversations with Miguel was becoming a fire that threatened to illuminate the entire facility.

I did not know what form the culmination would take or how Jesus would choose to manifest his power in a way that would force everyone to acknowledge what he was doing.

I only knew that the God who had appeared to me in dreams, who had sustained me through betrayal and imprisonment, who had used me to bring salvation to the most unlikely converts imaginable, was preparing something greater than anything we had yet witnessed.

The underground church in Sikut was about to experience a visitation that would shake the foundations of the world’s highest security prison and prove that no walls, not concrete, not steel, not the barriers between nations or religions or seemingly impossible circumstances could contain the advancing kingdom of Jesus Christ.

The night everything changed began like countless other nights in Chikot with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the sounds of restless men shifting on concrete floors and metal bunks throughout our overcrowded cell.

I had been in the prison for approximately 8 months by this point, long enough for the rhythms of incarceration to become familiar even if they never became comfortable.

Our underground community had grown to include nearly 40 believers scattered across our sill block.

Men whose transformed lives testified to the power of Jesus even though we could never gather openly or declare our faith publicly.

I had led whispered prayers earlier that evening asking God to continue protecting our fellowship and to open doors for the gospel to spread beyond the barriers that confined us.

I had no expectation that those prayers would be answered in the dramatic fashion that was about to unfold.

I was lying on my assigned section of floor near the back corner of the cell positioned between Carlos and Miguel who had become my closest brothers in this place of darkness.

The three of us had developed a routine of praying together silently during the night hours when most inmates slept and guards paid minimal attention to our section.

We would lie with our eyes closed, communicating with God individually while sensing the spiritual connection that bound us together as fellow believers.

That night, my prayers had focused on the warden Diego Ramirez, whose increasing attention to our cell block suggested that significant decisions about our future might be approaching.

I asked Jesus to reveal himself to this hardened man and to protect our community from whatever actions the prison administration might take.

I do not know what time it was when I first became aware that something unusual was happening.

My eyes were closed in prayer, but I sensed a change in the atmosphere that pulled me toward alertness without any identifiable cause.

The air itself seemed to thicken with presence, becoming charged with an energy that made my skin tingle and my heart rate accelerate.

I opened my eyes slowly, expecting to find some natural explanation for the sensation I was experiencing.

Perhaps a guard passing closer than usual or an inmate moving through the cell in the darkness.

What I saw instead made my breath catching my throat and u my body freeze in stunned recognition.

A light was gathering in the center of our cell, soft at first but growing brighter with each passing second.

It was not the harsh fluorescent glow that normally illuminated our existence or the occasional flash of a guard’s spotlight during nighttime patrols.

This light was warm and golden, radiating from a source that had no physical origin I could identify, expanding outward until it filled the entire space with a luminescence that should have awakened everyone immediately, but somehow did not.

I watched in wonder as the light intensified, becoming brighter than anything I had witnessed since arriving in Cotto.

Yet somehow not painful to observe.

My spirit recognized what was happening even before my mind could process the evidence.

The Jesus who had appeared in my dreams in Saudi Arabia, who had sustained me through betrayal and imprisonment, was about to manifest his presence in a way that would leave no room for doubt.

Carlos stirred beside me, his eyes opening to witness the same impossible light that had captured my attention.

I heard him inhale sharply, his body tensing with instincts developed through decades of violence that screamed danger at any unusual occurrence in his environment.

But he did not move or speak, frozen like me by the recognition that whatever was happening transcended anything his experience had prepared him to handle.

On my other side, Miguel awakened as well, his young face illuminated by the golden glow, his eyes widening with a mixture of fear and wonder that perfectly reflected my own emotional state.

We lay there together, three believers who had prayed for God to move powerfully in this place, now witnessing the beginning of an answer that exceeded our most ambitious expectations.

Then other inmates began waking throughout the cell, pulled from sleep by the supernatural light that could no longer be ignored or explained away.

I watched as hardened criminals who had murdered and tortured without remorse open their eyes to a sight that shattered every assumption they had ever held about reality.

Some sat up immediately, their faces contorted with confusion and terror at the inexplicable phenomenon unfolding before them.

Others remained frozen on the floor, too shocked to move.

Their minds struggling to process information that contradicted everything they believed about how the world worked.

Within moments, the entire cell was awake and staring at the light that continued growing brighter.

Dozens of men who had seen every form of human depravity, now confronted by something that could only be described as divine.

From within that light, a figure began emerging, taking shape gradually like someone walking through a doorway from another dimension into our cramped and filthy reality.

He was tall and majestic, clothed in garments of radiant white that seemed woven from the same light that surrounded him.

His face was more beautiful than any human face I had ever beheld, radiating a love so profound and a peace so complete that tears began streaming down my cheeks before I consciously decided to cry.

His eyes, those eyes that I remembered from dreams that had changed my life forever, swept across the cell, seeing every man present with a gaze that penetrated through external appearances into the depths of souls.

He was Jesus the Christ, the son of the living God, standing in the middle of Seikkot, surrounded by murderers and gang members and one Saudi prince who had been hidden there to die.

The silence that filled the cell was absolute.

Every man holding his breath as though breathing might disturb the miraculous presence that had invaded our prison.

Jesus stood motionless for a long moment, allowing everyone to absorb the reality of what they were witnessing and giving minds that had only known darkness time to adjust to the overwhelming light.

Then he began to speak and his voice resonated through the space with authority that demanded attention while simultaneously conveying tenderness that invited trust.

He did not speak in any single language but somehow communicated in ways that every man present understood perfectly regardless of their native tongue.

His words bypassed ears and entered directly into hearts.

Meaning that transcended the limitations of human vocabulary.

He called us beloved.

He looked at men whose hands were stained with blood, whose lives had produced nothing but destruction and death, whose very presence in this prison confirmed that society had judged them irredeemable and worthy only of permanent removal.

And he called them beloved.

He said that he had come not to condemn but to save.

that his father had sent him into the world not to judge sinners but to offer them forgiveness and new life.

He said that no sin was too great for his sacrifice to cover.

No heart was too hard for his love to soften.

No past was too dark for his grace to illuminate with hope.

He spoke words of invitation that seemed impossible.

given the audience receiving them murderers, rapists, and traffickers, men who had commit atrocities that would make normal people vomit in horror.

Yet, his invitation was genuine, and his arms were open.

The response throughout the cell was unlike anything I had witnessed in my entire spiritual journey.

Men who had maintained hardened exteriors through years of incarceration collapsed to their knees, weeping with an intensity that seemed to empty decades of suppressed emotion in moments.

Gang members whose tattoos proclaimed undying loyalty to organizations built on violence cried out for mercy from a god they had never before acknowledged.

Prisoners who had mocked our a small community of believers and dismissed our faith as weakness now pleaded for the same salvation they had ridiculed just hours earlier.

The sounds of masculine sobbing filled the cell.

A chorus of brokenness that somehow harmonized into something beautiful as hearts that had been closed for lifetimes suddenly open to receive what Jesus was offering.

Carlos was among the first to respond, though he had already given his life to Christ months earlier.

He crawled forward through the crowd of men until he was prostrate before Jesus.

His tattooed body shaking with emotion as he poured out gratitude for the forgiveness he had already received and the confirmation he was now witnessing.

Miguel followed his young face radiant with joy as he worshiped the savior who had rescued him from despair and given him hope even in secret.

Other members of our underground community join them.

Believers whose faith had sustained them through months of secret disciplehip now experiencing visible validation that everything they had believed was gloriously true.

We worshiped together openly for the first time, no longer hiding our devotion, but expressing it freely in the presence of the one who had earned our adoration.

But the most profound moments came from men who had not previously believed.

Inmates whose first encounter with Jesus was happening in real time as they witnessed his supernatural manifestation.

I watched as men.

I had considered utterly resistant to the gospel fell to their knees and surrendered their lives to Christ with confessions that revealed the depth of conviction the Holy Spirit was producing.

One man who had murdered multiple people cried out that he could see his victims standing behind Jesus, not accusing but forgiving their faces peaceful in a way that suggested their eternal destiny had also been secured.

Another man who had trafficked women and children for decades begged for mercy with such desperate sincerity that I wept alongside him, knowing that the grace being requested was sufficient even for sins of that magnitude.

Jesus moved through the cell as the responses continued, pausing before individual men to speak words that I could not hear, but that produced immediate and dramatic effects.

Some fell backward as though struck by invisible force only to rise with expressions of peace, replacing the torment that had defined their features.

Others received what appeared to be physical healing, straightening limbs that had been damaged in prison violence or touching faces that had been scarred beyond recognition.

Several men experienced what I could only describe as deliverance.

Their bodies convulsing briefly as something dark seemed to exit and something light took its place.

The cell that had been designed to contain humanity’s worst was being transformed into a sanctuary where heaven touched earth with power that no security protocol could prevent.

Eventually, Jesus stood before me and everything else faded from my awareness as his eyes met mine with recognition that spanned from dreams in Saudi Arabia through betrayal and imprisonment to this moment of overwhelming encounter.

He spoke my name, not Prince Rashid, but simply Rashid.

The name stripped of title and pretense and the sound of it from his lips made me feel more known and more loved than any human relationship had ever achieved.

He told me that he had been with me through every step of my journey.

That my suffering had never been punishment but preparation.

That the path from palace to prison had been designed to position me for a purpose I was now beginning to fulfill.

He said that what I was witnessing tonight was only the beginning.

That the fire ignited in Kikot would spread beyond these walls to touch nations and generations in ways I could not yet imagine.

He spoke specifically about my future, revealing things that I will not fully share because some of them have not yet come to pass.

But he promised that I would leave this prison that the circumstances of my release would testify to his power in ways that would confound those who had arranged my imprisonment.

He promised that my testimony would reach the royal family that had condemned me to die and that seeds would be planted even in hearts that seemed most resistant to the gospel.

He promised that the believers in Sikkot would continue growing and that revival would spread throughout the prison system of Sel Salvador in the years ahead.

He promised that what the enemy had intended for evil, God was already transforming into God.

That would bless multitudes who had never heard my name but would hear of my testimony.

Then he turned to address everyone in the cell one final time.

His voice rising with authority that silenced even the sounds of weeping and worship.

He declared that he was the resurrection and the life.

That anyone who believed in him would never truly die even if their physical bodies perished.

He declared that he had overcome the world and that those who trusted in him shared in that victory regardless of their circumstances.

He declared that he was building his church and that the gates of hell would not prevail against it, not the gates of secot, not the gates of any prison or power that opposed his purposes.

He commissioned us to be his witnesses in that place.

To continue sharing the good news with every inmate who would listen, to trust that he would provide everything needed to fulfill the mission he was assigning.

As he spoke these final words, the light surrounding him began intensifying and growing so bright that even eyes adjusted to the supernatural glow could barely maintain focus.

The figure of Jesus became less distinct, merging back into the radiance from which he had emerged, his form dissolving into pure light that pulsed oner with power that I felt in my very bones.

Then the light began receding, shrinking from the edges of the cell toward the center, condensing into a brilliance so concentrated that it appeared almost solid for one eternal moment before vanishing completely.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and buzzed as they had before, casting their harsh artificial glow across a cell that looked exactly as it had looked for months.

But nothing would ever be the same.

The aftermath of that night transformed everything about life in our section of Seot.

Men who had experienced the visitation could not return to who they had been before.

their encounters with Jesus, leaving marks on their souls that no amount of prison brutality could erase.

The underground community that had included perhaps 40 believers before that night now encompassed nearly the entire population of our cell block with only a handful of inmates resisting the change that had swept through the rest.

We no longer needed to hide our faith or whisper our prayers.

Worshiing openly in ways that should have invited punishment but somehow did not.

The atmosphere in our section became so distinct from the rest of the prison that guards and officials could not ignore the difference even if they could not explain what had caused it.

The guards who had been on duty that night reported seeing light emanating from our cell block, though they could not identify its source despite immediate investigation.

Several guards claimed to have experienced unusual sensations, peace they could not explain, thoughts about spiritual matters they had never previously considered, dreams that troubled them in subsequent nights with images of a figure in white asking questions they could not answer.

The reports made their way up the chain of command to Warden Ramirez, who summoned officers for detailed interviews and personally reviewed security footage that showed nothing except inexplicable illumination that the cameras could not source to any physical origin.

Something had happened in Sikkat that defied every explanation consistent with the materialistic worldview that governed prison administration.

I knew that the events of that night had set in motion developments that would eventually lead to my release.

Though I could not predict how or when the promise Jesus had made would be fulfilled.

I continued ministering to the growing community of believers now operating as an open pastor rather than a hidden evangelist leading worship and teaching scripture with a boldness that would have been impossible before the visitation.

Carlos and the Miguel served as leaders alongside me.

their testimonies of transformation providing powerful evidence that the change occurring in SEO was genuine and permanent.

We prayed together for the warden, for the guards, for the inmates in other sections who had not yet encountered Jesus, and for the mysterious process by which God would fulfill his promises about our future.

The waiting was difficult because the physical conditions of our imprisonment remained unchanged.

Even as our spiritual circumstances had been revolutionized, we still slept on concretus floors in overcrowded cells.

We still received inadequate food and contaminated water.

We still endured the degradations and deprivations that Sikot had been designed to inflict on its population.

But we endured with joy that made no sense to outside observers.

Our suffering transformed by the hope we now possessed and the community that sustained us through every hardship.

We were prisoners of El Salvador.

But we were free in Christ.

And that freedom was more real and more precious than any physical liberation could ever be.

The days following the visitation of Jesus transformed our section of secret into something that prison officials could neither understand nor control through conventional methods.

The change was visible to everyone who entered our cell block.

An atmosphere of peace that hung in the air like fragrance.

Faces that radiate to hope instead of despair.

interactions marked by kindness rather than the predatory violence that characterized every other section of the facility.

Guards who had rotated through our area before the visitation now requested transfers away, not because of danger, but because of discomfort.

They could not articulate.

Something was happening that violated every assumption they held about criminals, about prisons, and about the limits of human transformation.

The reputation of our cell blocks spread through secret like whispered rumors of something impossible yet undeniably real.

Warden Diego Ramirez became increasingly obsessed with understanding what had occurred in our section of his prison.

He reviewed security footage repeatedly, watching the unexplainable illumination that cameras had captured without being able to identify any source.

He interrogated guards who had been on duty that night, pressing them for details that might provide rational explanations for the light they reported seeing and the sensations they described experiencing.

He ordered psychological evaluations of inmates from our cell block, expecting to find evidence of mass delusion or coordinated deception that would explain the transformation he was observing.

But the psychologists returned with reports that only deepened his confusion.

The inmates they examined displayed mental health improvements rather than deterioration, exhibiting peace and purpose that defied everything known about the psychological effects of maximum security incarceration.

The warden summoned me for a private interview approximately 2 weeks after the visitation, escorting me under heavy guard to his office in the administrative building, a space I had never seen and that most inmates would never have opportunity to enter.

His office was spare and functional, decorated only with photographs of his family and commendations from government officials praising his success in managing El Salvador’s most challenging prison population.

He sat behind his desk, studying me with eyes that revealed nothing of his thoughts, the silence stretching between us until I understood he was waiting for me to break it.

I met his gaze calmly.

The peace Jesus had imparted still flowing through me despite the uncertainty of what this meeting might produce.

Ramirez finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of authority he had exercised over thousands of inmates throughout his career.

He told me that he had been observing my section of the prison for months, watching changes unfold that contradicted everything he believed about human nature and the purpose of incarceration.

He told me that he had built his career on the assumption that men like those in Kit were irredeemable, that the best society could do was contain them permanently to prevent further harm.

He told me that the transformation he was witnessing challenged that assumption in ways that disturbed him professionally and personally.

Then he asked me directly with an intensity that suggested the question mattered more to him than he wanted to admit what had happened in my cell block that night when the cameras recorded light that had no source.

I recognized the opportunity Jesus had provided and prayed silently for wisdom to speak truth that might penetrate defenses this hardened man had constructed over decades.

I told the Ramirez about my journey from Saudi prince to sacred prisoner, holding nothing back about my conversion to Christianity, my family’s betrayal, and the secret arrangement that had deposited me in his facility under a false identity.

I watched his eyes widen as I revealed my true background, information that clearly contradicted whatever file he possessed about the foreign terrorist he believed I was.

I told him about the underground community of believers that had formed through months of whispered evangelism and transformed lives.

And I told him about the night Jesus himself had appeared in our cell, manifesting his presence to dozens of inmates who had surrendered their lives to him in response to that supernatural visitation.

The warden listened without interrupting his face, a mask that concealed whatever reactions my words were producing beneath the surface.

When I finished speaking, he sat in silence for a long moment.

his fingers steepled before his face as though he were praying, a posture I suspected was unfamiliar to a man who had built his life on self-reliance and institutional power.

Then he told me something that shifted my understanding of what God was doing behind the scenes I could not see.

He told me that he had been experiencing dreams since the night of the visitation.

Dreams of a figure in white who looked at him with eyes that seemed to know everything about his life and still offered something that felt like love.

He told me that he could not sleep properly, could not focus on his work, could not escape the sense that something was pursuing him with relentless patience.

He asked me whether this was the same Jesus I was describing.

I felt tears forming in my eyes as I recognized what the warden was confessing.

He was experiencing the same divine pursuit that had captured my own heart in Saudi Arabia before I ever held a Bible or spoke with another Christian.

Jesus was not content to save only the inmates of Secot.

He was reaching for the man who controlled the entire facility, the authority whose decisions determined whether our community would be protected or destroyed.

I told Ramirez that what he was experiencing was exactly what I had experienced before my conversion that Jesus was revealing himself through dreams because he loved the warden and wanted a relationship with him.

I told him that the peace he had observed in our cell block was available to him personally.

That the transformation he could not explain in others could happen in his own heart if he would trust the one who was pursuing him.

The warden did not make any decision during our conversation.

But I could see the battle raging behind his eyes as everything he had believed about himself and the world was challenged by possibilities he had never seriously considered.

He dismissed me without comment about my true identity or what implications that revelation might carry for my continued imprisonment.

But something had shifted in the spiritual atmosphere surrounding our situation.

A movement in the unseen realm that would eventually manifest in circumstances I could not yet anticipate.

I returned to my cell block carrying hope that God was working on multiple fronts simultaneously weaving together threads that would eventually form a tapestry revealing his glory to everyone involved in my story.

The supernatural disturbances that had begun the night of the visitation continued in the weeks that followed, spreading beyond our cell block to affect guards and officials throughout.

Multiple staff members reported dreams featuring the figure in white encounters that left them shaken and questioning assumptions they had never previously examined.

Several guards requested reassignment to other facilities, unable to continue working in an environment that challenged their world view so fundamentally.

One senior officer resigned entirely later telling colleagues that he could not escape the feeling that something inituting him judging him calling him toward a response he was not ready to make.

The institutional culture that Ramirez had carefully constructed was being destabilized by forces no administrative policy could address.

Unexplainable events multiplied as the weeks progressed.

Phenomena that defied every natural explanation and pointed toward the supernatural activity that refused to remain hidden.

Lights flickered throughout the facility without electrical explanation.

equipment malfunctioned in patterns that seemed almost purposeful, failing when certain actions were attempted and functioning perfectly otherwise.

Several guards reported hearing singing in corridors where no inmates were present, harmonies that sounded like the worship music that now filled our cell block during the hours we were permitted to gather.

The atmosphere of secot was being invaded by a presence that could not be contained or controlled.

The same Jesus who had appeared visibly in our cell now manifesting in a subtler ways throughout the entire prison.

The turning point came through an unexpected channel that I would never have predicted.

an international journalist named Elena Torres, who had been investigating conditions in Secot for a documentary about El Salvador’s controversial approach to gang violence.

Elena had cultivated sources within the prison administration who provided information about abuses and conditions that the government preferred to keep hidden from international scrutiny.

Through these sources, she received an anonymous tip about something extraordinary happening in one section of the facility.

Transformation among inmates that defied explanation and rumors of supernatural events that officials were desperately trying to suppress.

The tip also included a claim that seemed too outrageous to be credible, that a member of the Saudi royal family was imprisoned in Secot under a false identity hidden there through corrupt arrangements that violated international law.

Elena’s investigation began quietly, but the trail she followed led her toward discoveries that would prove impossible to contain.

She cross-referenced my false identity with international databases and found inconsistencies that confirmed the documentation was fabricated.

She investigated financial transactions between Saudi intermediaries and Salvadoran officials, uncovering evidence of payments that coincided with my disappearance from Saudi Arabia.

She interviewed former guards who had witnessed the unusual events in my cell block and were willing to speak anonymously about experiences that taunted them.

She pieced together a story that connected royal family betrayal, international corruption, supernatural phenomena, and mass spiritual transformation in the world’s most secure prison.

The story was so extraordinary that no editor would have approved it without extensive verification, but the verification was mounting with each new source she contacted.

I knew nothing of Elena’s investigation until much later after events had already begun accelerating beyond anyone’s ability to control.

What I knew at the time was that something was shifting in how prison officials treated our cell block.

A hesitancy that suggested decisions were being debated at levels far above the guards who interacted with us daily.

The warden stopped visiting our section personally, delegating observation to subordinates while he dealt with pressures I could not see.

Administrative routine that had been rigidly enforced became flexible without explanation.

Restrictions easing in ways that suggested someone was reconsidering how our community should be handled.

The spiritual atmosphere continued intensifying.

Prayer and worship flowing through our cell block with an energy that felt like the building pressure before a storm finally breaks.

The night that changed everything began with an unexpected visit from Warden Ramirez himself.

Arriving at our cell block after midnight with an escort of guards whose faces betrayed confusion about what they were doing.

The warden entered our cell while his guards remained outside, walking through the sleeping and waking inmates until he stood before me with an expression I had never seen on his face.

a mixture of fear, wonder, and something that looked almost like surrender.

He told me that he had made a decision he could not fully explain, that he had been unable to escape the prisons that had been pursuing him since the night of the visitation, and that he was ready to meet the Jesus I had told him about.

He asked me with voice breaking like a child’s how he could be saved.

I led Warden and Diego Ramirez to faith in Jesus Christ in the middle of the night, surrounded by inmates who walked to witness their jailer kneeling on the concrete floor of their cell and weeping as he confessed sins accumulated over a lifetime of hardness.

Carlos and Miguel joined me in praying over him, laying hands on his shoulders as he surrendered his life to the Savior who had relentlessly pursued him despite every resistance.

The guards outside watched through the bars with expressions of utter bewilderment, unable to comprehend what they were seeing, but equally unable to intervene in something that seemed to transcend their authority.

When the warden finally rose, his face was transformed in ways that even skeptical observers could not deny.

The hardness replaced by peace, the calculation replaced by something that looked like genuine joy.

The days that followed brought rapid developments that confirmed Jesus was orchestrating events toward the fulfillment of promises he had made during the visitation.

Warden Ramirez used his authority to begin making inquiries about my true identity through channels that eventually reached people who could verify the claims I had made.

Simultaneously, Elena Torres had accumulated enough evidence to approach her editors with a story she believed would generate international attention.

The convergence of these independent investigations created pressure that the corrupt officials who had arranged my imprisonment could no longer contain.

Exposure was becoming inevitable and the calculations that had governed my fate began shifting as various parties sought to protect themselves from consequences that now seemed unavoidable.

I was summoned from my cell one morning approximately 3 weeks after the warden’s conversion.

Escorted not to his office but to a processing area I had never seen.

Officials I did not recognize handed me civilian clothing and documents with a new identity.

not my true name, but something that would allow me to travel without immediately attracting the attention that my Saudi royal identity would generate.

They told me that I was being released and deported, that my presence in El Salvador had become a liability that various interested parties had agreed needed to be eliminated.

They did not explain who had made these decisions or what had motivated them.

But I recognized the hand of God working through human channels that remained invisible to me even as I benefited from their outcomes.

The journey from secret to freedom passed in a blur of movement and emotion that I could barely process in real time.

I was transported from the prison to an airport placed on a flight whose destination I learned only when the boarding announcement identified it as Madrid, Spain.

I sat in an airplane seat, wearing clothes that were not mine, carrying documents that bore a false name, traveling toward a future I could not predict, yet feeling more peace than I had experienced in all my years of Saudi privilege.

I was leaving behind brothers in Christ who would continue the work God had begun in secret believers whose faith had been forged in the same fires that had refined my own.

I was leaving behind a warden whose conversion would influence how thousands of inmates were treated in the years ahead.

I was leaving behind a story that would eventually reach the world through Elenator and others who would tell it.

When the plane landed in Madrid and I walked through airport corridors as a free man for the first time in nearly a year, I was met by representatives of a Christian organization that assisted persecuted believers fleeing dangerous situations.

They had been contacted through networks I could not trace, provided with information about my identity and circumstances, and prepared to receive me with resources and support that would help me establish a new life.

They embraced me as a brother, wept with me as I shared fragments of my story, and promised to connect me with communities of faith that would provide the fellowship and disciplehip I needed to continue growing in Christ.

I had arrived in a new country with nothing except the clothes I was wearing and a testimony that I knew God wanted me to share with the world.

In the months and years that followed, I have worked to fulfill the commission Jesus gave me during his visitation in Secot.

I have shared my testimony in churches, conferences, and media platforms across Europe and beyond, telling the story of how a Saudi prince found Jesus through dreams and study, lost everything when his faith was discovered, was condemned to the world’s highest security prison, through corrupt arrangements, and was delivered through supernatural intervention that no human power could explain.

I have learned that Elena Torres eventually published her investigation, exposing the corrupt networks that had facilitated my imprisonment and generating diplomatic consequences that affected relationships between multiple nations.

I have heard reports that revival continues spreading through Seikkot and other Salvadoran prisons.

the fire that Jesus ignited through our small community now burning in facilities throughout the country.

I’ve also received information about developments in Saudi Arabia that confirm Jesus is working even in the heart of the family that condemned me to die.

My mother, Princess N, has reportedly been asking questions about Christianity that would have been unthinkable before my disappearance.

My brother Fisal, who helped arrange my imprisonment, has experienced dreams that disturb his sleep and challenge his certainty about the faith he claims to follow.

Even my father, according to sources, who maintain connections within the royal household, has been seen standing alone in private gardens speaking to someone invisible, his lips moving in what observers believe might be prayer.

I do not know whether any of them will ultimately come to faith, but I pray for them daily, trusting that the same Jesus who pursued me through palaces and prisons is pursuing them through whatever means he chooses.

The testimony I carry is not ultimately about me.

It is about the Jesus who found me when I was lost and rescued me when I was condemned.

I was a prince with everything the world considers valuable.

Yet, I was empty until I encountered the one who is himself the treasure worth more than all earthly kingdoms combined.

I was a prisoner in the world’s most secure facility, surrounded by the most dangerous men on earth.

Yet, I experienced freedom that no cell could contain and community that no walls could separate.

I was a man condemned by his own family to suffering and death.

Yet, I was delivered by a power that makes human authorities look as insignificant as they truly are when compared to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

If you are hearing or reading this testimony, I want you to know that the same Jesus who appeared in my dreams in Saudi Arabia, who sustained me through betrayal and imprisonment, who manifested his glory in secret and delivered me from the world’s highest security prison.

That same Jesus is reaching out to you right now.

He is not limited by your background, your religion, your sins, or your circumstances.

is not intimidated by the prisons that confine you.

Whether they are made of concrete and steel or constructed from shame and fear and hopelessness, he is pursuing you with the same relentless love that pursued me.

And he is offering you the same gift of eternal life that I received when I surrendered my life to him.

No prison can hold what Jesus sets free.

No corruption can thwart what Jesus purposes.

No family can ultimately condemn what Jesus chooses to save.

I am living proof of these truths.

A Saudi prince who lost everything and gained infinitely more.

A sec prisoner who found freedom that transcends physical liberation.

A man who was hidden to die but was found by the one who is himself the resurrection and the life.

My testimony is his testimony and I will spend the rest of my days declaring his glory to anyone who will listen.

To Jesus Christ, my savior, my deliverer, and my king.

All glory, all honor, and all praise forever and ever.

Amen.