My name is Princess Amira.

I was 22 years old on November 2nd, 2020 when my entire world collapsed.

Born into the Saudi royal family, I was third in line of succession.

Raised in palaces worth $50 million, I had everything money could buy.

But I was about to discover the horrifying truth.

That morning, I learned I wasn’t a princess at all.

I was merchandise property to be shared between five of my male cousins like a prize they could pass between themselves.

I thought I knew what suffering meant.

But I had no idea what hell looked like until that day.

Here’s how Jesus Christ saved me from a nightmare I never imagined possible.

I need to tell you about the golden cage I lived in before everything fell apart.

From the moment I could walk, I was surrounded by luxury that most people only see in movies.

Our main palace in Riyad had marble floors imported from Italy, chandeliers worth more than most people’s houses, and servants who attended to my every need.

I had my own wing with 12 rooms, a private library, and closets filled with designer clothes from Paris and Milan.

But luxury has a way of blinding you to the bars on your cage.

My father, Prince Khaled, was the brother of the oil minister, which meant our family controlled billions of dollars in government contracts.

Power flowed through our bloodline like oil through pipelines.

And I was taught from birth that I was special, chosen, blessed by Allah to be born into royalty.

Every morning at dawn, I would wake to the call to prayer, echoing through our compound.

By age seven, I was performing all five daily prayers without fail.

My private Islamic tutor, a stern woman named Sister Fatima, made sure I memorized the entire Quran.

By my 15th birthday, I could recite verses in perfect Arabic about submission, obedience, and Allah’s will for faithful women.

I believed every word.

When sister Fatima told me that Allah had placed me in this privileged position to serve his purposes, I felt proud.

When she explained that women who obeyed their fathers and husbands would be rewarded in paradise, I nodded eagerly.

I thought my strict Islamic upbringing was preparing me for a blessed life.

Ask yourself this question, though.

When does protection become imprisonment? I started noticing things that didn’t feel right around my 18th birthday.

My male cousins were sent to universities in London and New York.

But when I asked about studying abroad, my father’s face turned dark.

He said Western education would corrupt my pure Islamic heart and that I had everything I needed within our family compound.

The compound itself was like a small city.

High walls topped with razor wire surrounded our property.

Armed guards stood at every entrance.

And I was told they were there to protect our family from enemies and kidnappers.

But I began to notice that these guards paid very close attention to my movements.

If I walked toward the main gate, they would politely redirect me back toward the family quarters.

If I spent too long talking to female servants, they would interrupt our conversations.

My uncles controlled a business empire that stretched across the Middle East.

Uncle Hassan owned construction companies that built half the skyscrapers in Dubai.

Uncle Ahmed had exclusive contracts to supply the royal military.

Uncle Fared managed our oil investments.

During family gatherings, I would watch these powerful men make decisions that affected thousands of jobs and millions of dollars.

The women in our family played a very different role.

My mother, Princess Leila, was beautiful and elegant, but she never spoke during business discussions.

She would sit quietly, hands folded, eyes downcast while the men planned and decided.

When I asked her why she didn’t share her opinions, she said it wasn’t a woman’s place to question men’s wisdom.

I had female cousins around my age, but one by one they disappeared from family gatherings.

When I asked where cousin Mariam had gone, I was told she had been blessed with a good marriage.

When cousin Zara stopped coming to our women’s tea gatherings, the explanation was always the same.

Marriage, blessed arrangements, Allah’s will being fulfilled.

By age 20, I was the only unmarried woman in my generation still living at the family compound.

This should have made me suspicious, but I was told I was too precious, too important to be given to just any man.

My father said, “Allah had special plans for me that would bring great honor to our family name.

” The isolation grew stronger each month.

Friends from my childhood were no longer allowed to visit.

When I asked to visit them, I was told their families were too far beneath our social status.

My phone calls were monitored by servants who would listen on another line.

My internet access was restricted to approved Islamic educational websites and family business pages.

I started having strange meetings with my older male cousins.

These men, all in their 30s and 40s, would visit our home and request private conversations with me in the formal sitting room.

They would ask odd questions about my health, my daily routines, whether I was happy living with my parents.

I thought they were just showing family concern, but something about their eyes made my skin crawl.

The conversations would stop abruptly whenever I entered rooms where my father and uncles were talking.

I would catch fragments of sentences about timing, arrangements, and keeping bloodlines pure.

When I asked my mother what they were discussing, she would change the subject quickly and suggest we pray together instead.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine the growing fear I felt as the walls closed in around me.

Guards became more restrictive about my movements.

Servants started watching me constantly.

My bedroom window was fitted with decorative bars that were actually quite functional.

I was living in a beautiful prison and I didn’t even understand what crime I had supposedly committed.

The last piece of freedom I lost was hope.

When when you’re told every day that your life is blessed, that Allah has wonderful plans for you, but you feel more trapped with each passing week, you start to question everything.

I kept praying harder, reading the Quran more, trying to be a better Muslim daughter.

I thought if I was faithful enough, Allah would show me why I was being kept like a bird in a golden cage.

I had no idea that the real nightmare was just beginning.

The truth came crashing down on October 15th, 2020 in the most devastating way possible.

I was walking past my father’s study when I heard Uncle Hassan speaking loudly on his phone.

The door was slightly open and his voice carried into the hallway where I stood frozen listening to words that would destroy everything I thought I knew about my life.

The arrangement is finalized.

He was saying in Arabic, “She will rotate between the five of them on a weekly schedule.

Ahmed gets her on Mondays, Omar on Tuesdays, Fared on Wednesdays, Khalil on Thursdays, and Hassan’s son Rashid on Fridays.

Weekends, she rests and prepares for the next week.

My legs nearly gave out beneath me.

I pressed my back against the cold marble wall, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst.

He was talking about me like I was a rental car being scheduled between different drivers.

This will keep the bloodline pure, Uncle Hassan continued.

No outsiders, no weak genetics.

If she produces sons, we’ll determine paternity through DNA and decide which father gets to claim the heir.

The family lawyers have drawn up all the contracts.

I wanted to run, to scream, to do anything but stand there listening to my own family plan out my destruction, but my feet wouldn’t move.

I had to hear it all.

She doesn’t know yet, does she? The voice on the other end asked, and I could hear it clearly through the phone.

Prince Khaled will tell her tonight.

If she resists, we have ways of convincing her.

The family’s honor and genetic legacy are more important than one girl’s feelings.

This is Allah’s will for her.

I stumbled backward, my hand over my mouth to keep from from vomiting right there.

And the hallway, everything made sense now.

The isolation, the strange meetings, the questions about my health.

They weren’t evaluating me as a person.

They were inspecting me like livestock.

That evening, my father called me into his private office.

I sat across from his massive desk, trying to keep my face calm while my soul was some screaming.

He poured himself tea and looked at me with what I had always thought was fatherly love, but now recognized as ownership.

Amira, my daughter, you have reached the age where Allah’s plan for your life must be fulfilled.

He began.

His voice was gentle, as if he was giving me wonderful news.

Our family has been blessed with wealth and power for generations because we keep our bloodline pure and strong.

I knew what was coming, but hearing it from my own father’s mouth felt like being stabbed in the heart with a burning knife.

You will be shared among your five cousins in a rotating arrangement that will honor our family traditions and ensure that any children you bear will have the strongest possible royal genetics.

This is a great privilege, Amamira.

You will be the mother of future princes.

Ask yourself this question.

How would you respond if your own father told you that your life’s purpose was to be passed around like a trophy between five men? I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me this was some kind of horrible joke.

But his eyes were completely serious.

I will not do this, I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His face darkened immediately.

This is not a request, daughter.

This is Allah’s will and your family’s decision.

You will do this willingly or you will do this by force, but you will do this.

I tried reasoning with him.

I begged him to remember that I was his daughter, not his property.

I quoted verses from the Quran about Allah’s mercy and love.

I promised to be a good wife to one man if he would arrange a proper marriage instead.

Nothing I said mattered.

He explained that Islamic law gave him complete authority over my life until I was transferred to a husband and in this case I was being transferred to five husbands simultaneously.

He had consulted with religious scholars who confirmed that this arrangement was permissible under Sharia law for the preservation of royal bloodlines.

The decision is made.

Amira, tomorrow you will be moved to the prepared quarters in the east wing.

Your cousins have already agreed to the schedule.

I ran to my mother’s room, tears streaming down my face, and threw myself at her feet.

I told her everything broke, begging her to intervene, to protect me to be my mother instead of just another silent woman in this family.

She held me while I sobbed, stroking my hair like she used to when I was little.

For a moment, I thought she would help me.

Then she spoke words that crushed my last hope.

This is very hard, my daughter, but we must trust that Allah knows what is best for our family.

Your sacrifice will bring honor to generations of our bloodline.

I will pray for you to find peace in accepting his will.

Even my own mother saw me as an acceptable sacrifice for family honor.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine discovering that every person who claimed to love you actually saw you as an object to be used.

The five cousins who would be sharing me were all married men with children.

Akmed was 34 and had beaten his wife so badly she required surgery.

Omar was 28 and notorious for his cruelty to servants.

Fared was 45 and had already divorced two wives for failing to produce male heirs.

These were not men who would treat me with kindness or respect.

They had been promised access to a royal woman for their pleasure, and they had paid handsomely for the privilege through various business arrangements with my father and uncles.

The next morning, servants moved my belongings to a luxurious prison in the east wing of our compound.

The rooms were beautiful, but the windows had bars.

The doors locked from the outside.

Armed guards were stationed in the hallway, not to protect me, but to ensure I couldn’t escape.

A schedule was posted on the wall like I was a conference room being booked for meetings Monday through Friday.

I belonged to a different cousin.

Weekends were for rest and preparation.

Medical examinations were scheduled monthly to monitor my health and check for pregnancy.

I wasn’t Princess Amira anymore.

I was breeding stock for the royal family bloodline.

The golden cage had become a nightmare beyond anything I could have imagined.

And according to everyone around me, this was Allah’s blessed will for my life.

The arrangement officially began on Monday, October 26th, 2020 when cousin Ahmed arrived at my prison with a smile that made my blood run cold.

He was 34 years old, married with three children, and he walked into my quarters like he was entering a hotel room he had paid for.

because that’s exactly what I was to him.

Good morning, princess, he said, his voice dripping with mock respect.

I hope you understand how honored you should feel.

Not every woman gets to serve the royal family in such an important way.

I had spent the previous night on my knees praying to Allah with every fiber of my being, begging him to intervene, to send an earthquake, a fire, anything to stop what was about to happen.

But the sun rose anyway, and Ahmed walked through my door, right on schedule.

The first thing he did was establish the rules.

I was not to speak unless spoken to.

I was not to resist or complain.

I was to remember that my purpose was to bear strong sons for the royal bloodline.

If I cooperated, he would treat me with relative kindness.

If I resisted, he had permission from my father to use whatever force was necessary.

Your father and I have an understanding sight, he said, sitting in the chair across from where I stood, trembling.

You belong to this family and this family has invested too much in you to let you ruin our plans with childish rebellion.

I tried to maintain some dignity to remember that I was a human being with thoughts and feelings and rights.

But when I attempted to reason with him, explaining that I had never agreed to this arrangement, he laughed in a way that chilled me to the bone.

Amira, you don’t seem to understand your position.

You are property.

Valuable property, yes, but property nonetheless.

Your father owns you until you produce heirs, and then your sons will own the family legacy.

Your feelings about this are as irrelevant as a horse’s opinion about which rider sits on its back.

The week with Ahmed was a preview of hell.

He treated me like I existed solely for his convenience and pleasure.

He would arrive each morning and evening, using me however he wished, then leave me alone to count the hours until his next visit.

He brought files to review while I sat silent in the corner as if I were furniture in his temporary office.

When Tuesday came, Omar replaced Akmed, and I discovered that cruelty has many faces.

Omar was younger, but somehow more vicious.

He seemed to enjoy my fear and would deliberately say things designed to break my spirit further.

“You know what I like about this arrangement?” he told me on his second day.

I get all the benefits of having you without any of the responsibilities.

When I’m tired of you, I just leave and let the next cousin deal with your tears.

By Wednesday, when Fared took his turn, I had stopped eating regularly.

Food tasted like ash in my mouth.

Fared was the oldest at 45 and he treated the entire situation like a business transaction.

He would review my medical files, discuss breeding schedules, and analyze genetic compatibility charts as if I were a prize.

The family has invested significant resources in your upkeep and education, he informed me while reviewing his paperwork.

Your father estimates that raising you has cost approximately $2 million.

This arrangement ensures that investment pays dividends for generations.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever felt so completely worthless that you forgot you were human? By the time Thursday arrived with cousin Khalil, I had stopped looking in mirrors.

The woman reflected there was a stranger with dead eyes and a broken spirit.

I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.

Khalil was perhaps the most disturbing because he pretended to be kind.

He would bring me gifts, speak softly, and act as if this arrangement was a love story instead of systematic abuse.

His fake gentleness was more degrading than the others open cruelty.

I know this is difficult for you, Amira, he would say while stroking my hair like I was a pet, but you’ll learn to accept it.

Women in our family have fulfilled this role for centuries.

It’s in your blood to submit and serve.

Friday brought Rashid, Uncle Hassan’s son, who was only 28, but had already learned to treat women like objects from watching his father and uncles.

He was the worst of all because he was close to my age, but felt entitled to use me like the older men did.

The weekends, which were supposed to be rest periods, became times of desperate planning.

I would pace my beautiful prison, trying to think of ways to escape, ways to die, ways to disappear.

The guards outside my door were there 24 hours a day.

The windows were barred.

The doors were locked from the outside.

I attempted to escape twice during those first weeks.

The first time I tried to climb out a window during the night, forgetting about the bars until my hands were bleeding from trying to bend them.

The second time I hid in a laundry cart, but the servants discovered me before it left the building.

Both escape attempts resulted in punishment, reduced food, complete isolation, and threats against my younger sister if I tried again.

They made it clear that my resistance would bring consequences not just for me but for the other women in my family.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine losing every trace of who you used to be.

I stopped praying to Allah because I couldn’t understand how a merciful God would allow this to happen to one of his faithful daughters.

I had memorized his holy book, followed his laws, trusted in his protection, and this was my reward.

The Quran spoke about paradise for obedient women, but I was living in hell while being perfectly obedient.

I had submitted to my father, accepted my family’s authority, and followed Islamic law exactly as I had been taught.

Yet, I was being destroyed piece by piece.

By early November, I had completely given up hope.

I realized that this would be my life until I died.

I would be passed between these five men until my body gave out or until I produced enough male heirs to satisfy the family’s genetic ambitions.

There was no rescue coming, no escape possible, no mercy to be found.

I decided that death was the only door they couldn’t lock.

On November 1st, 2020, I stole a kitchen knife during dinner preparation.

That night, after the house fell silent, I sat on my bed with the blade in my trembling hands, finally ready to take control of the only choice I had left.

I wrote a goodbye letter to my younger sister, warning her to run if they ever tried to do this to her.

I had lost everything that made me human.

I wasn’t Princess Amira anymore.

I was just a broken shell waiting for the courage to end my suffering.

I thought I knew what rock bottom felt like, but I was about to discover that sometimes you have to reach the very depths of hell before heaven reaches down to save you.

At exactly 3:17 a.

m.

on November 2nd, 2020, I was sitting on my bed with the kitchen knife pressed against my wrist, ready to end the nightmare that my life had become.

I had written my final letter, said my last prayers to a god who seemed deaf to my suffering, and prepared to take the only escape route that remained available to me.

Then my room filled with light.

I’m not talking about someone turning on a lamp or opening a door.

This light had no earthly source.

It was brilliant and warm, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, filling every corner of my locked prison prison with a radiance that made the expensive chandeliers look like dying candles.

The light didn’t hurt my eyes, but it made me drop the knife in shock.

A figure walked through my locked door as if it were made of mist.

He was tall, wearing robes that were whiter than fresh snow, and his face radiated a love and compassion that I had never seen in any human being.

His hands bore scars that looked like nail wounds.

And when he looked at me, I felt like I was the most precious person in the entire universe.

daughter,” he said in perfect Arabic, his voice carrying an authority that made my soul recognize him immediately.

I see your suffering.

I should have been terrified.

According to everything I had been taught about Islam, this was either a demon trying to deceive me or I was having a complete mental breakdown.

But instead of fear, I felt an overwhelming sense of safety for the first time in months.

Who are you? I whispered, though somehow I already knew the answer.

I am Jesus whom your people call Issa, he replied, kneeling beside my bed so that we were eye to eye.

I am the one who died for you, who loves you beyond measure, who has watched every tear you have cried in this place.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever encountered a presence so pure and loving that it made you realize you had never truly understood what love meant before? That’s what happened when Jesus looked into my eyes.

Every lie I had been told about my worthlessness crumbled in the face of his infinite compassion.

But I’m Muslim, I said, confusion mixing with the growing hope in my chest.

You’re not supposed to care about me.

Allah is supposed to be my God.

Jesus smiled with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

I came to earth for Muslim women too, Amira.

I came to set the captives free, to heal the brokenhearted, to give hope to those who have no hope.

You are not property.

You are my beloved daughter.

He reached out and touched my face.

and I felt years of shame and degradation washing away like dirt in a river.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I remembered what it felt like to be treated as a precious human being instead of an object.

I have watched every moment of your torment.

Jesus continued, I have felt every pain they inflicted on you.

I know what it means to be abused by those who should protect you.

I know what it means to be betrayed by those who claim to love you.

He showed me his scarred hands.

And suddenly I understood this wasn’t some distant cold deity like the Allah I had prayed to my entire life.

This was someone who had experienced human suffering firsthand, who understood my pain because he had walked through his own agony.

“Where were you?” I asked the question that had been burning in my heart for weeks.

Why didn’t you stop this from happening to me? I was here, daughter.

I was here every moment, weeping with you, catching every tear, preparing a way of escape that would not only free your body, but transform your soul.

Sometimes the rescue comes not in preventing the storm, but in walking through it with you and bringing you safely to the other side.

Jesus then showed me visions that changed everything I thought I knew about how God sees women.

I saw him talking with the woman at the well, treating her with respect and dignity despite her past.

I watched him defend the woman caught in adultery when religious men wanted to stone her.

I witnessed him appearing first to Mary Magdalene after his resurrection, making a woman the first witness to his victory over death.

In my kingdom, he said, women are not proper are property to be owned.

They are daughters to be cherished.

You are not less than men in my eyes.

You are equally precious, equally loved, equally valued.

Look inside your own heart right now and try to imagine what it felt like to hear those words after months of being treated like livestock.

Every verse from the Quran about women’s submission and obedience suddenly seemed small and limiting compared to this revolutionary message of equality and love.

I will make a way where there seems to be no way, Jesus promised, his voice filled with unshakable certainty.

But first, you must choose.

Will you follow me? Will you trust me with your life even when the path ahead looks impossible? I thought about everything I was risking.

In Saudi Arabia, converting from Islam to Christianity was punishable by death.

My family would disown me completely if they discovered my faith.

I would lose any chance of ever seeing my homeland again.

But then I looked into Jesus’s eyes and saw a love that made every earthly relationship look shallow by comparison.

I saw a future where I was valued for who I was, not what I could produce, for a family bloodline.

I saw hope where there had been only despair.

Yes, I whispered, and the word felt like the first honest thing I had said in months.

I chose you.

The moment I spoke those words, Jesus reached out and touched the knife that had fallen beside me on the bed.

It simply disappeared, vanishing as if it had never existed.

Then he touched my wrists where I had already made small cuts in preparation for ending my life and the wounds healed instantly, leaving no scars.

You will live, daughter.

You will be free, and you will tell other women about my love for them.

Your story will become a beacon of hope for those who think escape is impossible.

He showed me a vision of my escape route, complete with timing and the people who would help me.

He revealed that Maria, the Filipino maid who cleaned my quarters, was actually a secret Christian who had been praying for me everyday.

He showed me exactly when the guards would be distracted, which doors would be unlocked, and how I would make it safely out of the compound.

Tomorrow at 4:45 a.

m.

, he said, “Your new life begins.

But remember, daughter, you are not just escaping from something.

You are escaping to something far greater than you can imagine.

” As the vision faded and Jesus prepared to leave, he spoke one final promise that I carry in my heart to this day.

I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

You will never be alone again.

The light gradually dimmed and Jesus faded from my side.

But the peace and hope he had given me remained like fire in my chest.

For the first time in months, I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live, to be free, to discover what it meant to be a beloved daughter of the King of Heaven.

I had encountered the living God, and nothing would ever be the same.

I spent the remaining hours until dawn memorizing every detail of the vision Jesus had shown me.

The escape would happen during the 4:30 a.

m.

call to prayer when the guards would be distracted by their religious duties.

I would need to move through the kitchen into the servant quarters and out through the delivery entrance where a truck would be waiting.

Most importantly, I would have help from Maria, the Filipino maid, who had been secretly praying for me.

At 4:15 a.

m.

, I heard the familiar sound of Maria’s clean cleaning cart rolling down the hallway outside my quarters.

My heart pounded as I realized that everything Jesus had shown me was beginning to unfold exactly as he had promised.

When she knocked softly and entered with her usual cleaning supplies, I looked at her with new eyes.

Maria,” I whispered in English, hoping the guards outside couldn’t hear.

“I need to ask you something very important.

Do you know Jesus?” Her eyes went wide with shock, and she glanced nervously toward the door.

Then she reached into her cleaning apron and pulled out a small wooden cross, holding it against her heart.

Princess, I have been praying for you every day since they brought you here.

She whispered back in accented Arabic.

I am Christian.

I know Jesus saved you last night because I felt it in my spirit during my prayers.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever experienced a moment when you realized God had been orchestrating events long before you understood what was happening? That’s exactly what I felt when Maria revealed that she had been interceding for me while I thought I was completely alone.

He told me you would help me escape, I said, watching her face for any sign of fear or hesitation.

Without a moment’s pause, Maria reached deeper into her cleaning supplies and pulled out civilian clothes, a hijab to disguise my identity, falsified identification papers, and an envelope filled with cash.

I have been preparing for this day since I started working here 3 months ago,” she explained quickly.

“My church has an underground network that helps persecuted women escape.

We knew eventually Allah would send someone who needed our help.

Not Allah.

I corrected her gently.

Jesus sent me to you.

Her face broke into the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.

Yes, princess.

Jesus sent you to us and us to you.

At exactly 4:30 a.

m.

, the call to prayer began echoing across our compound.

Maria and I both froze, listening as the guards outside my door began their ritual prayers.

This was our window, and it would only last 15 minutes at most.

Maria helped me change into the plain clothes she had brought.

The servants’s uniform was rough compared to the silk night gowns I had been wearing, but it felt like freedom itself against my skin.

She wrapped the hijab carefully around my head, making sure my distinctive features were hidden.

The security system, I whispered.

Jesus showed me it would malfunction.

But what if it doesn’t? It already has, Maria whispered back with a confidence that could only come from faith.

My friend Carlos in the security office is also Christian.

He has been waiting for this moment, too.

The cameras in the kitchen and servant quarters will show empty hallways for exactly 20 minutes.

We moved through my quarters like shadows.

Maria carrying her cleaning supplies to maintain the illusion that she was simply doing her job.

At the door, we paused to listen.

The guards were deep in prayer, their voices carrying the familiar Arabic verses I had recited thousands of times myself.

The hallway was empty as we slipped out of my prison and moved toward the kitchen wing of the compound.

Every step felt surreal, like I was walking through a dream that that might shatter at any moment.

But Jesus presence was with me, just as he had promised, giving me supernatural calm in the midst of what should have been terrifying.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine taking the first steps toward freedom after months of captivity.

Every corner we turned, every door we passed through felt like a miracle.

The kitchen was deserted because all the staff were at prayers.

The delivery entrance, which was normally locked and guarded, stood open with a produce truck idling outside.

The driver was a middle-aged Filipino man who looked at me with the same compassionate eyes I had seen in Jesus’s vision.

He didn’t ask questions or hesitate.

He simply opened the back of his truck and helped me climb into a hidden compartment behind boxes of vegetables and supplies.

“God has prepared a safe place for you,” he said in English.

My name is Antonio and Jesus has been showing our church your face in our prayers for weeks.

We have been waiting for you.

As a truck pulled away from the compound, I heard my heart beating so loudly.

I was certain it would give away our location.

We passed through the main gate where I had been stopped so many times, but the guards waved Antonio through without inspection.

They knew him as a regular delivery driver and had no reason to suspect anything unusual.

We drove through three military checkpoints on the way out of the royal district.

At each one, I held my breath and prayed silently to my new savior.

At the first checkpoint, the guard was called away for an urgent phone call just as we approached.

At the second, the inspection officer was dealing with a traffic accident.

At the third, our truck was mysteriously waved through without any examination at all.

Every lock Jesus promised to open clicked open perfectly, I whispered to Maria, who was riding in the cab with Antonio.

After 2 hours of driving, we arrived at a small house on the outskirts of Riyad.

It looked completely ordinary from the outside, but when Antonio knocked on the door with a specific pattern, I heard the sound of multiple locks being opened from inside.

A Filipino woman in her 50s opened the door and immediately embraced me like I was her own daughter.

Her name was Carmen and her home was a safe house for the underground Christian network that operated throughout Saudi Arabia stay.

“Welcome daughter,” she said in Arabic, tears streaming down her face.

“Jesus told us you were coming.

We have been preparing a place for you.

” Inside the house, I met six other women who had escaped various forms of persecution and abuse.

Some were converts from Islam like me.

Others were foreign workers who had been trafficked or enslaved.

All of them had found Jesus in their darkest moments.

And all of them had been rescued through the same network that had just saved me.

For the first time in months, I sat at a table with people who looked at me and saw a human being instead of instead of property.

Carmen served me.

homemade bread and tea, while the other women shared their own escape stories.

Each testimony was different, but they all had the same theme.

Jesus making a way where there seemed to be no way.

Princess Carmen said as I finished eating my first meal as a free woman.

Would you like to see the Bible? Would you like to read about Jesus for yourself? She handed me a worn Arabic Bible and I opened it to the Gospel of John.

The very first words I read changed my understanding of God forever.

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

I had memorized the entire Quran, but I had never read anything that made my soul feel like it was coming home.

Every page felt like a personal letter from the God who had rescued me, showing me his heart for the broken, the oppressed, and the lost.

That night, I fell asleep as a free woman for the first time in months.

I was no longer Princess Amira, the royal breeding stock.

I was simply a daughter of the king of heaven, and that was infinitely more precious than any earthly title could ever be.

3 weeks after my escape, I made the most important decision of my new life.

Carmen and the other believers had been studying the Bible with me everyday, showing me who Jesus really was and what it meant to follow him.

On November 23rd, 19020, I stood in the small bathroom of our safe house and was baptized in a bathtub filled with water that represented my death to the old life and resurrection to the new.

I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, whispered Pastor Miguel, a Filipino minister who served the underground church.

As the water covered my head, I felt every chain from my past breaking away.

When I came up from that water, I was no longer Princess Amira of the Saudi royal family.

I was Sarah, which means princess in God’s kingdom, and I had traded earthly royalty for citizenship in heaven.

The transformation happening inside me was more dramatic than anything I could have imagined.

For 22 years, I had been taught that women were created to serve and submit.

That our highest purpose was to bear sons and obey men.

But as I read the gospels, I discovered a Jesus who treated women as equals, who valued our thoughts and opinions, who made us witnesses to his most important moments.

When I read about Mary Magdalene being the first person to see Jesus after his resurrection, I wept with joy.

In my Islamic upbringing, women’s testimony wasn’t even considered valid in many legal situations.

But Jesus chose a woman to be the first witness to the most important event in human history.

A trusted woman with his most precious truths.

Every day I spent reading the Bible felt like discovering water after years in a desert.

The Quran had always felt like a list of rules and punishments.

But the Bible read like a love letter from God to his children.

Where Islam had taught me to fear Allah’s judgment.

Christianity showed me a father who ran toward me with open arms.

But this new freedom came with an enormous cost.

Within days of my escape, my family had issued a death warrant against me.

According to Islamic law and Saudi justice, I was an apostate who deserved to die for abandoning Islam.

My father placed a bounty of $2 million on my head, offering the money to anyone who could bring me back alive or pro provide proof of my death.

The Saudi religious police began a manhunt that extended beyond our borders.

Private investigators were hired to search for me in neighboring countries.

My photograph was distributed to Islamic communities worldwide with instructions to report any sightings to Saudi authorities.

Ask yourself this question, though.

Would you trade temporary safety for eternal freedom? Even knowing the price I would pay, I have never regretted choosing Jesus.

The peace and joy I found in my relationship with him was worth more than all the wealth and security of my former life.

I had to say goodbye to everything that had defined me.

My royal title, my inheritance worth hundreds of millions of dollars, my family name, even my homeland.

I would never again see the desert sunsets over Riyad or smell the frankincense burning in our family mosque.

My little sister, who I loved more than my own life, was now forbidden to even speak my name.

But I’m asking you, just as a sister would, can you see the incredible exchange I made? I lost a kingdom built on sand, but I gained the kingdom of heaven.

I lost a family that saw me as property, but I was adopted by a father who sees me as his beloved daughter.

I lost a religion of fear and submission, but I found a relationship of love and freedom.

The underground Christian network helped me apply for asylum in a country where I could practice my faith openly.

The process was dangerous and complicated, requiring fake documents and careful coordination with international religious freedom organizations.

Every day we waited for approval was a day my family’s agents might find me.

During those months of hiding, God gave me a vision of my future ministry.

I saw myself standing before crowds of Muslim women telling them about Jesus’s love for them.

I saw secret Bible studies in homes across the Middle East.

I saw women who had been told they were worthless discovering their infinite value in Christ.

Sarah Carmen told me one morning as we prayed together.

God saved you not just from your family but for his family.

your story will become a bridge that helps other women cross from Islam to Jesus.

She was right.

Even while in hiding, I began reaching out through secure internet connections to Muslim women who were asking questions about Christianity.

When they heard that a Saudi princess had chosen Jesus despite the ultimate cost, it gave them courage to consider the gospel for themselves.

My testimony started spreading through underground networks across the Middle East.

Women who had never heard that Jesus loved them were discovering the truth through my story.

Christian organizations working with persecuted believers began sharing my experience to show that no one is beyond the reach of God’s love.

Look inside your own heart right now and consider what God might be calling you to do with your own story.

Each of us has a testimony of how Jesus has rescued us.

And that testimony has the power to set others free.

Today I live in a country where I can worship Jesus openly, where I can read my Bible without fear, where I can share my faith without risking execution.

I’m studying at a seminary preparing for formal ministry to Muslim women around the world.

Every morning when I wake up free, I remember that November night when Jesus walked into my prison and unlocked every door.

I still use a different name for security reasons.

I still receive death threats from my family and Islamic extremists who consider me a traitor to Islam.

I will probably never be completely safe from those who want to silence my testimony.

But I would rather be a poor Christian living in God’s protection than a rich Muslim living in a golden cage.

I traded the temporary title of Saudi princess for the eternal identity of daughter of the king of kings.

I lost everything the world values, but I gained everything that truly matters.

My name is Sarah and I am finally completely joyfully free.

Jesus Christ broke every chain that bound me and he can break yours too.

No matter how impossible your situation looks, no matter how trapped you feel, no matter what religion or family or culture is holding you captive, Jesus can make a way where there seems to be no way.

I am living proof that nothing is too hard for