In this video, I want to share something with you that completely changed my life.

I was born into luxury at the heart of one of the most powerful families in Saudi Arabia.

I was raised to follow strict rules and represent a lineage that admits no failure.

But everything began to crumble the day I made a simple choice, to read the Bible.

That decision led me to be disowned, erased from official records, and thrown without a name and without explanation into the most feared prison in the world.

What was meant to be the end of my story ended up becoming the beginning of a calling and the place where Jesus appeared among murderers.

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May this story speak to your heart.

I don’t know if there is a right way to start something like this.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would believe everything that happened to me.

But even if they don’t, I know what I lived through.

My name is Omar.

I was born in the midst of everything the world calls power.

As the son of one of the most influential families in the Middle East, my name used to open doors anywhere on the planet.

I was raised with rules, rituals, and a future mapped out by others.

Since childhood, everything about me was molded to represent something greater than myself.

The faith I claimed to follow was a requirement, not a choice.

For a long time, I accepted this without question.

But a question that entered my mind on a cold dawn ended up changing the course of my life forever.

What if Jesus is more than they say? That question haunted me for weeks.

I began searching for answers in secret.

Like a criminal inside my own home, I read articles hidden in the bathroom, watched videos in the dark of my bedroom, and in the midst of it all, I asked for a Bible.

When it arrived, my heart raced as if I had received a package of dynamite.

And perhaps in a way I had I read it in secret, trembling, crying, questioning everything.

I was no longer facing an idea, but a person, and that person began to visit me in dreams.

They weren’t ordinary dreams.

It was as if someone were actually there with me.

He called me by name.

He looked at me with a love I had never seen, not even in my mother’s eyes.

And that is what destroyed me inside.

I didn’t want to pretend anymore.

I believed.

And that was the beginning of the end or perhaps the beginning of everything.

My fall was swift.

One day I was at an international conference representing my country.

The next I woke up with a bitter taste in my mouth, my hands tied and not even my own clothes on.

My body was still numb and my head was spinning as if I had been hit by a car.

The first things I saw were filthy concrete walls, a cold floor, and shouts in a language I barely understood.

Spanish.

Slowly, I began to understand what had happened.

My father, upon discovering my conversion, did not scream.

He simply looked at me as if I had died.

And in a way, I had.

He erased my existence, forged my death, and had me buried alive.

Not in the desert, but inside what they say is the most feared prison on the planet.

Secot in El Salvador.

No documents, no name, no defense, a ghost among murderers.

The cell was inhumane.

It was meant for 40, but at least 70 men were squeezed in there.

The air was hot, feted, smelling of sweat, fear, and dried blood that permeated everything.

The men looked at me as if they already knew I wouldn’t last.

I was different, a foreigner, thin, without tattoos, with eyes that didn’t yet know what it was like to see a body stabbed just a few feet away.

But what gave me away most was the silence.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t threaten.

I didn’t laugh.

I prayed.

And that in that place was more dangerous than any knife.

In the first few days, I almost lost my mind literally and emotionally.

I heard fights.

I saw men beaten nearly to death.

I saw abuse, humiliation.

But in the middle of it all, something in me didn’t break because I felt, and I know this will sound strange, that he was there with me.

Not with words, not with explanations, but with a presence, silent, real.

In the beginning, I avoided even moving my lips when I prayed.

I repeated the verses I had memorized in silence only inside my head while pretending to sleep.

But there were nights when I needed to speak.

I would whisper softly, covering my face with the coarse sheet that felt more like a floor rag.

It was in those moments that I felt something different in the air.

It was as if for a second the prison became less heavy.

The noise, the heat, the hatred, everything seemed to take a step back.

I began to notice that some men looked at me during those moments, not with anger, but with a strange kind of curiosity.

One of them, a boy named Miguel, approached me one dawn while everyone was sleeping.

I sat against the wall thinking he was going to ask for food or threaten me, but he only asked, “Who are you talking to when you close your eyes like that?” Miguel was young, maybe about 20, but his eyes, his eyes carried more weight than those of a 70-year-old man.

He had marks on his face and tattoos up to his neck, but he spoke softly, almost with shame.

I thought about lying, but something inside me, perhaps the same thing that had kept me standing until then, made me tell the truth.

I said I was praying, that I was talking to Jesus, that he was the only reason I hadn’t gone crazy yet.

Miguel fell silent.

I thought he was going to laugh or report me, but he only replied, “I’m also afraid of going crazy in here.

” That’s how it started.

Two people completely out of place, surrounded by monsters whispering about God in a corner of concrete and darkness.

That night, I knew something was changing.

After that conversation, Miguel began to sit closer to me during the quiet nights.

He didn’t talk much, but he watched me intently when I prayed.

One night, he asked me if I knew any prayer he could learn.

I took a deep breath because even if it was something small in that place, any gesture like that could cost you dearly.

But I taught him first the Lord’s Prayer.

Then some verses I remembered.

He repeated them with difficulty, getting words wrong, but with a concentration I hadn’t seen in there since I arrived.

It was as if he had found a crack of light in that dark hole.

And I did, too.

Because as much as I was alone, isolated and forgotten by the entire world, that reminded me that my faith was still alive, that it still generated life, even there, even in that hell.

Shortly after, something changed in Miguel’s gaze.

He no longer spoke only of fear.

He started asking questions about Jesus.

He wanted to know why I believed, how he spoke to me, and if he would really forgive someone like him.

And it was those questions that moved me most inside.

Because Miguel wasn’t just curious, he carried guilt.

He told me bit by bit with a lump in his throat that he joined a gang when he was only 13.

He said he did things that even he couldn’t remember clearly because he was so dirty on the inside.

When he said that, he looked at me expecting perhaps a sermon, a judgment.

But I only said that Jesus had forgiven me even with all my masks, and that if he had reached me in a palace, he could also reach Miguel in that cell.

At that moment, Miguel turned his face and began to cry.

I didn’t say anything else.

I just placed my hand on his shoulder.

We stayed there in silence.

And that was the first worship service I had in prison.

After that, other people started to notice, some with contempt, others with suspicion.

But there were one or two who showed something different in their eyes, a mixture of doubt and hope.

The entire prison was divided by invisible rules.

There was hierarchy, even in misery.

Every corner of the cell had an owner, every blanket, every bit of floor space.

And suddenly, our little corner, where Miguel and I exchanged whispered words about God, became an outlier.

A man named Carlos began to approach.

No one dared say no to Carlos.

He was one of the most feared men in there, his body covered in tattoos that told stories of death, torture, and gang leadership.

When he sat near me and remained silent, my entire body went tense.

I thought it was the end, but he only asked, “Do you really think God would forgive a guy like me?” I took a long time to answer.

Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I realized that question wasn’t superficial.

It was a cry trapped inside someone who carried a weight that no man could lift alone.

I said I believed in that more than anything else in life.

And I told him about Paul, the persecutor of Christians, about David, about the thief on the cross.

Carlos didn’t interrupt me once.

When I finished, he just stared at the floor, expressionless, and then stood up without saying a word.

I didn’t know if it had made an impact or if I had just signed my death warrant.

But days later, he came back and he came back different.

He asked me to explain again who Jesus was.

I realized that place, which had been created to kill all hope, was beginning to be invaded by something that neither bars nor weapons could contain.

Gradually, something I could never have imagined began to happen.

Those men, marked by crime, betrayal, and a whole past of violence were starting to hear about forgiveness.

But it wasn’t a theoretical forgiveness.

It was something they saw written on Miguel in the way he walked, in the way he treated others after he started praying.

And mainly they noticed that Carlos, the most feared man in that cell, was no longer the same.

He still had the body of a gang warrior, but his eyes.

His eyes no longer carried the same coldness.

He still didn’t speak much.

But one day, without anyone expecting it, he knelt near the wall and began to pray in a low voice.

No one dared to laugh.

The silence that fell over that cell at that time was different from any other.

It was as if everyone understood, even without being able to explain it, that something bigger was happening there.

After that, others began to approach.

There weren’t many, and it wasn’t easy, either.

Everything still happened in secret, among whispers, disguised looks, and prayers whispered in the early hours.

But the cell that previously only breathed fear and hatred began to take on another kind of air.

It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

We began to memorize verses together, me and about four others.

When the guards passed, we pretended to be talking about anything else.

One night, one of the guys said he had dreamed of a light.

He said he woke up feeling peace, something he had never felt since he entered there.

And I understood because that was exactly how it started.

That’s how it was with me.

That’s how it was for all of us.

Faith was being born in the midst of pain, very slowly but steadily, like a seed that grows even in the driest ground.

Some guards began to get suspicious.

They noticed that the atmosphere in that wing had changed.

The violence had decreased.

Gang fights stopped happening with the same frequency.

It was too strange.

One of the jailers even stared at me for minutes as if trying to understand what I was doing.

But there was no proof of anything.

No meetings, no books, no preaching, just men who previously only knew hatred and who were now different.

The truth is that the cell became a disguised church.

Every sign was a code.

A touch on the chest meant, “I’m praying for you.

” A long look meant don’t give up.

And every week one or two more joined this silent movement.

No one preached with a microphone.

No one raised their hand in an appeal.

But his presence was there in our midst in a way no one could explain.

I remember one night in particular.

The prison lights never went out, but that dawn they flickered.

They grew weaker for a few seconds and it was in that instant that Miguel approached me with watery eyes.

He said, “I know he forgave me just that.

” He didn’t need to say anything else.

I hugged him like a brother.

That moment seemed outside of time.

Deep down, we all knew that at any moment it could end.

It only took a guard catching us talking too much, someone betraying us, or a transfer, and everything would fall apart.

But even so, no one wanted to turn back.

It was better to die there with faith than to live without knowing who we were.

That filthy, smelly, hopeless cell became the place where I found my mission, and more than that, where Jesus found us.

The day everything went out of our control started like any other.

The sound of bars, the smell of sewage, raspy voices shouting orders in Spanish.

But inside, I was restless.

A feeling that is hard to explain, as if something very big was about to happen.

That night, the three of us, me, Miguel, and Carlos, were lying close together, not saying anything, just praying in silence.

That’s when I noticed the air had changed.

Literally, it was lighter, warmer, as if something was moving there that wasn’t visible.

I opened my eyes and saw a glow forming in the middle of the cell.

It wasn’t flashlight light.

It wasn’t a reflection.

It was a different light growing slowly.

At first, I thought I was dreaming.

I blinked several times, but when I looked to the side, I saw that Miguel and Carlos were also looking.

No one said a word.

We just felt it.

The light kept growing, taking over the entire cell.

The other prisoners began to wake up.

Some sat up, others stood up, but no one said a thing.

It was as if time had stopped.

And then he appeared.

I don’t know how to explain this.

He didn’t come through a door.

He was simply there in our midst.

And even without anyone saying his name, everyone knew who it was.

It was Jesus.

Not the one from the paintings with a clean robe and raised hands.

He was real.

He had presence.

He had authority.

But he also had a look that no one there had ever experienced.

A look that pierced the soul.

A look that knew everything and yet did not judge.

I couldn’t stand up.

I just cried.

A silent, heavy cry as if my soul were being broken and restored at the same time.

In that instant, everything stopped.

There was no pain, no hunger, no fear.

Just him and us.

There was no escaping it.

Even the coldest men in the cell, those who never showed emotion, who carried horrific crimes on their backs, were there kneeling, crying like children.

The silence of the cell was broken by sobs, groans, people asking for forgiveness.

Some just repeated, “Forgive me.

” Others spoke the names of people they had killed as if they were finally releasing it.

And he, Jesus, moved among us.

I don’t know how to explain this.

He didn’t speak with his mouth, but everyone heard him.

It was as if he spoke directly inside our hearts.

Each person understood what they needed to hear, as if it were something just for them.

I remember that when he stopped in front of me, he didn’t say a word, but I understood everything.

I understood that I wasn’t meant to run anymore, that everything I went through hadn’t been by chance, that I wasn’t there as a punishment, but as part of a plan.

When he turned to Carlos, it was one of the most impactful scenes I’ve ever seen in my life.

Carlos fell to the floor with his face pressed against the dirty concrete, trembling.

He cried so hard it seemed his body would fall apart.

And I knew why.

Carlos was a man marked by blood.

He had done things most wouldn’t have the courage to even imagine.

But there, before Jesus, he was naked.

Without the weight of the tattoos, without the title of leader, without a mask, just a broken man before a god who loves.

Miguel stood with his hands raised, his eyes shining.

He looked like a child watching his own father come home after years.

In that instant, I understood that what we were living there wasn’t a church service.

It wasn’t an event.

It was heaven invading hell.

It was God reminding the world that not even the worst place is forgotten by him.

I wish you could have seen it with your own eyes.

Because if someone had told me, I probably wouldn’t have believed it.

But that night, murderers sang, not with instruments, nor with memorized lyrics.

They sang the way they knew how, with tears, with choked voices, with simple words.

Each in their own language, each with their own pain.

But all turned toward him.

The smell of sweat, dried blood, and cement didn’t go away.

But it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

It was as if that environment had been pushed back.

As if for a few minutes we were somewhere else.

I never really understood what glory is, but in that cell I understood what presence is.

A presence so strong that even the guards who came to peer through the glass froze.

No one dared to interrupt.

And if they had tried, I’m almost certain something greater would have stopped them.

It was Carlos who said the last thing before the silence returned.

He spoke out loud without fear.

I am not the same anymore.

And no one doubted it.

It was as if we had crossed an invisible portal, a limit.

Because when the light began to fade slowly, we felt that it was ending.

Jesus became less visible but no less real.

His face faded into the light as if he were returning to where he came from.

And when the cell went back to normal, with the fluorescent light flickering, with the snoring, the groans, and the heat, we knew that nothing would ever be the same.

No one spoke for a long time.

Most went back to lie down, but with eyes wide open, staring at the dirty ceiling.

It seemed everyone was trying to understand what had just happened.

And the truth is, no one could.

Not even me.

In the following days, no one needed to coordinate anything.

The change was made and it was visible.

Men who previously isolated themselves in hatred now shared food.

Those who previously laughed at any sign of weakness now protected each other.

The cell that was previously a warehouse for forgotten men turned into a place of spiritual resistance.

We remained dirty, tired, eating poorly, and with no prospect of freedom.

But there was something no one could take from us.

The certainty that God had been there.

Carlos began telling his story to new prisoners who arrived.

Miguel became a sort of younger brother to almost everyone.

And I I just did what could be done.

I prayed with whoever wanted to, explained verses from memory, answered questions that I also didn’t quite know how to answer.

Not because I was strong, but because I could no longer ignore what had happened to us.

It didn’t take long for the news to spread.

Other blocks of the prison started hearing that something strange had happened in our cell.

Some said it was madness.

Others thought we were pretending to gain some advantage, but those who lived inside saw it with their own eyes.

The change was too real to be an act.

Even some guards began to approach.

One of them once pulled me aside in the hallway and asked quietly, “What did you guys do in there?” I just replied, “We didn’t do anything.

” He did.

And that’s exactly it.

We didn’t organize anything.

We didn’t have a plan.

It was just faith.

Faith in the dark.

Faith in the early hours.

Faith whispered with fear.

And that faith, small as it was, was enough to tear a hole in heaven.

A hole through which Jesus entered and changed everything.

There was a day when I sat alone in the corner of the cell and tried to remember every detail of that night.

I wanted to keep it all.

Every look, every word that wasn’t said, every sensation.

But no matter how hard I tried, it seemed part of it was beyond my memory, as if it were something that can’t be captured whole or explained clearly.

You can only feel it.

And to this day, there are moments when I wake up in the middle of the night and ask myself, did that really happen? And every time that doubt comes, I remember Carlos’s eyes, Miguel’s hug, the guard who asked me about God for fear of someone hearing.

I remember myself on a cold, dirty, broken floor, but at peace.

a piece I never found in any palace.

I never officially left that prison.

One day they called me by a number, not by name, and said they were going to transfer me.

They put me in a car with my face covered, and when I took off the blindfold, I was already in another place, in another country, with another identity.

To this day, I don’t know who ordered it, but I am certain it was the answer to a promise I heard on that night of light, that this was only the beginning.

Since then, I tell this story when I feel someone needs to hear it.

And every time I tell it, my body trembles, my voice fails, and my eyes fill because I know that wasn’t madness nor a hallucination.

It was real.

It happened.

And even if the whole world doubts, we were there.

We saw it.

And no one will take that away from us.

To this day, no one knows for sure what happened in that cell.

Officially, nothing happened.

There are no records.

There were no cameras working that night.

No one mentioned it in reports, but those who lived through it carry the mark to this day.

Carlos, Miguel, me, and so many others I may never see again.

Sometimes people ask me how something so grand could have happened in such a forgotten place.

And I don’t know how to answer.

The only thing I know is what I felt.

And no one erases that because after that night, the prison remained the same on the outside but was totally transformed on the inside.

And the strangest thing of all is that nothing like it ever happened again.

Not to me nor to the others.

It was as if that moment had been reserved, as if it were an outlier in history, a tear in time, and it passed suddenly, just as it came.

I’ve tried to write about this before, but I always stopped in the middle.

I felt the words didn’t do justice to what we lived.

But now I understand this kind of thing isn’t written.

It is witnessed.

That’s why I speak.

Because if there is at least one person in the world who feels lost, forgotten, too dirty to be loved by God.

Maybe this story will serve to remind them that he still enters the most unlikely places.

And when he enters, it doesn’t matter if you are in a palace or a prison, if you have a name or have been erased from the records.

He knows who you are and he calls you by name.

And if one day someone asks me how I know that, I will smile and say because I was there.

And to this day, I don’t know how to explain how it happened.

I only know that it happened and that is enough.

If there is something this story has taught me, it’s that Jesus can enter even the places where no one else enters.

And when he enters, nothing remains the same.

The prison that was built to erase me ended up being the place where I lived most truly.

There I discovered that God’s love reaches even the forgotten, the condemned, those whom the entire world has already given up on.

And if he did that for me, he can do it for anyone.

Now tell me, what did this story awaken in you? Have you ever had a powerful experience with God in an unlikely moment of your life? Share it here in the comments.

I really want to know.

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