My name is Sultan Omar. I am 12 years old. I was born into the royal family of Saudi Arabia.
I ordered the execution of Christians before I even became a teenager. I had already ordered the execution of Christians twice.
The first time I was only 10 years old. But Jesus stepped in. He stopped me.
He saved me. And through me, he saved my entire family. We left our throne for Christ.
Our story spread like wildfire. Shared and reshared by Christians who were amazed and encouraged and by Muslims who were shocked and outraged.
News outlets picked it up. Headlines appeared in multiple languages. Saudi royal family converts to Christianity.
Prince abandons Islam for Jesus entire household flees Saudi Arabia after encountering Christ. And we would do it again a thousand times over because he is worth everything.
He is the way, the truth, and the life. And there is no other name under heaven by which we must be saved.
I remember standing in the grand courtyard of our palace in Alhammer district that October morning in 2022.
The Red Sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and jasmine through the marble columns.
My father’s senior adviser, Shik Mansor, handed me a folder containing photographs and reports of 15 Filipino and Indonesian workers caught conducting a secret Bible study in one of the servant quarters near the eastern gate.
My hand didn’t tremble as I opened it. My heart didn’t hesitate. I had been trained for this moment my entire life.
Your highness, Shik Mansor said, his voice soft but firm. These Christians have defiled your family’s home.
They have insulted Allah by spreading their corrupted book within these sacred walls. Islamic law is clear.
Your father wishes to see if you understand your duty. I looked at the faces in the photographs, men and women in their work uniforms.
Eyes tired from long shifts serving our household. I felt nothing but contempt. My tutors had taught me well.
Christians were deceivers, enemies of Islam, people who had twisted the truth about the prophet Isa, and who worshiped him as God in open defiance of Allah’s clear revelation in the Quran.
I was a prince of the kingdom that housed Mecca and Medina, the holiest sites in Islam.
Protecting the purity of our faith was not just a duty, it was an honor.
Execute them, I said simply, closing the folder and handing it back. Quietly, before far prayer tomorrow, she smiled with approval.
You have made your father proud, Sultan. You are a true servant of Allah. The 15 workers were taken to the desert outside Jedha that night near the old Mecca highway and shot.
I was told about it the next afternoon during my Quran memorization session. My imam, Shik Ibrahim, a stern man from Medina with a long gray beard and eyes like black stone, paused between suras to commend me.
You have defended Islam, young prince, he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. Never forget Christians are like serpents.
They appear harmless, but their venom is spiritual poison. You did what was necessary. I nodded, feeling a swell of pride in my chest.
I was 10 years old and I had proven myself worthy of my royal blood.
But Jesus did it again. He stepped in. He stopped me and through me. He converted my entire family, my father, my mother, my two younger sisters, my uncle, even she Mansor himself.
But to understand how that miracle happened, you have to know the world. I grew up in a world of golden cages.
Absolute power and a version of Islam so strict that love was replaced by duty and mercy was seen as weakness.
I woke every morning to the call of the adhen echoing from the mosque on King Abdulaziz road just beyond our compound.
My mother, a quiet and devout woman named Amira, would gather me and my sisters Noir, who was nine, and Ila, who was seven, in our private prayer room.
We would perform woodoo together, washing our hands, faces, and feet in the ritual purification before kneeling on soft prayer rugs facing Mecca.
Islam was not just our religion. It was the rhythm of our existence, woven into every breath, every moment, every decision.
My father, Prince Fil, was a man of few words, but immense presence. Tall and broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard and piercing eyes.
He carried himself with the authority of someone who had never been told no. He was involved in various business and governmental councils, often traveling between Jedha, Riyad, and Medina for meetings with other members of the royal family.
When he was home, he would sit in the majus, our family’s formal gathering room with my uncles and advisers, discussing everything from oil contracts to religious matters, always invoking Allah’s guidance.
Sultan, he told me once when I was eight, pulling me onto his lap in the mus after the other men had left.
You are born into a family that has protected Islam for generations. Our wealth, our power, our very lives exist to serve Allah and defend his truth.
Never forget that the world outside these walls is full of enemies. Christians, Jews, atheists, people who want to destroy everything we stand for.
You must be strong. You must be vigilant. I listened with wide eyes, absorbing every word.
I wanted nothing more than to make him proud, to prove that I was worthy of the name I carried.
My education was rigorous and unrelenting. Private tutors came to the Palestinian imams from Medina and Mecca, scholars of Islamic law, teachers of Arabic, mathematics, and history.
But above all, my education centered on the Quran and the Hadith, the sayings and actions of the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.
I was expected to memorize large portions of the Quran, and I did so with pride, reciting Surah Albakara and Surah Alimran perfectly by the time I was nine.
Christians, he would say, pacing the length of the study room while I sat cross-legged on a cushion, are the most dangerous of all the unbelievers.
They claim to follow the prophet Isa, but they have twisted his message beyond recognition.
They say he is the son of God AIA when Allah has no son. They say he was crucified and resurrected when the Quran clearly tells us he was neither killed nor crucified but that Allah raised him up.
They worship three gods, father, son, and holy spirit when we know there is only one Allah.
They are mushri polytheists and their presence is a contamination. He would pull out news clippings, videos, reports, anything to reinforce his point.
Stories of Christian missionaries trying to sneak Bibles into Saudi Arabia. Accounts of Western countries bombing Muslim nations.
Images of churches being built in places where mosques once stood. I believed every word.
How could I not? I had no reason to doubt him. He was a scholar, a man of God, a teacher sent to guide me.
And everything I saw around me seemed to confirm what he said. The foreign workers in our household, Filipinos, Indonesians, Egyptians, Sudin, were kind and polite.
Yes. But I was taught to see that kindness as a mask. I was told that many of them were Christians and that they might try to spread their beliefs if given the chance.
So I watched them carefully. I noted when they gathered in groups during their breaks.
I listened when they spoke in their own languages, wondering if they were secretly praying to their false god.
I saw the small crosses some of them wore as necklaces hidden beneath their uniforms, and I felt a cold anger rise in my chest.
How dare they bring such symbols into a Muslim home. My father encouraged this vigilance.
You have good instincts, Sultan, he said one evening after I reported seeing a group of workers huddled together near the garden.
Keep watching. Keep learning. One day you will have the authority to act. I was 10 years old when my father decided it was time to test me.
He called me into his private office, a room lined with bookshelves filled with Islamic texts, a large desk of dark wood and windows overlooking the Jedic Cornesh where the Red Sea stretched out like a sheet of glass under the afternoon sun.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. “I obeyed,” my heart pounding with anticipation.
He slid a folder across the desk toward me. “Open it.” Inside were photographs, documents, and a brief report.
15 workers, mostly Filipinos and Indonesians, had been caught holding a secret Bible study in one of the storage rooms near the servants’s quarters.
A loyal guard had discovered them late at night. Singing hymns in English and reading from a Bible, one of them had smuggled into the compound.
“What do you think should be done?” My father asked, his eyes fixed on me.
“I didn’t hesitate. They have broken Islamic law. They have defiled our home. They should be punished.
Out execution, I said firmly. To send a message to protect Islam. My father leaned back in his chair.
A slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. You are ready, he said.
Give the order, and I did. I felt no guilt, only pride. The second execution order came just 3 months before my 12th birthday.
By then, I had grown comfortable with the weight of authority. My father had placed on my shoulders.
The power to decide who lived and who died no longer felt strange or heavy.
It felt natural, like breathing, like the rhythm of the five daily prayers that structured every day of my life in Arjetta Palace.
This time the case involved eight Egyptian workers who had been caught distributing Arabic language Bibles in the marketplace near Albalad.
The old historic district where tourists walked through ancient coral stone buildings and merchants sold everything from spices to gold.
Someone had reported them to the religious police. And because two of them worked in properties owned by our family, the case landed on my father’s desk.
He handed it to me without ceremony one afternoon after dur prayer. Simply placing the folder in my hands and saying, “Handle it.”
I read through the reports, looked at the photographs of the Bibles they had been carrying, and signed the execution order with the same pen I used for my Quran homework.
They were taken to the desert outside the city limits that weekend. I never asked what happened to the bodies.
My days followed a predictable and comfortable pattern during those years. Mornings began before dawn with far prayer.
My mother would wake us gently and we would gather in the family prayer room, a space with floor toseeiling windows facing east toward Mecca.
After breakfast, my tutors would arrive. Shik Ibrahim came three times a week for Quranic studies.
We would sit in the library, a room lined with books in Arabic, English, and French, though I was only allowed to read the ones my father approved.
There was one worker in particular who caught my attention during the months leading up to my 12th birthday.
His name was Omar, a Filipino man in his 40s who worked as a driver and maintenance worker.
He had kind eyes and a quiet smile. And unlike some of the other workers who seemed nervous or resentful, he always appeared calm.
I would see him in the garage washing the cars or checking the engines, and he would greet me respectfully.
And I noticed that sometimes during his break, he would sit alone in the garden near the fountain, close his eyes, and move his lips silently as though he were praying.
It bothered me what was he praying to whom I reported it to Shik Mansor once, suggesting that Omar might be a Christian and that we should investigate him.
Shik Mansor thanked me for my vigilance and said he would keep an eye on the man, but nothing ever came of it.
Omar continued working, continued humming, continued praying silently in the garden. One afternoon in late summer, just a few weeks before my 12th birthday, I was wandering through the storage wing of the palace, a part of the compound I rarely visited.
It was hot and I was bored, and I had finished my lessons early. The storage rooms were filled with old furniture, boxes of decorations from past celebrations, and supplies for the household.
As I walked down the dim hallway, I noticed that one of the doors was slightly open.
Curious, I pushed it wider and stepped inside. The room was small and cluttered with shelves lining the walls and stacks of boxes on the floor.
Dust floated in the beam of sunlight coming through a high window. And there, on one of the shelves, partially hidden behind a stack of old linens, I saw a book.
It was small, bound in black leather with gold lettering on the cover. I pulled it out and wiped the dust off.
The title was in English, a language I could read fairly well, thanks to my tutors.
Holy Bible. My heart started to race. This was forbidden. This was dangerous. I should have immediately taken it to my father or to Shik Ibrahim.
I should have reported whoever had hidden it here. But instead, I felt a strange pull, a curiosity.
I could not explain. I looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then I slipped the Bible under my shirt and walked quickly back to my room.
That night, after my family had gone to bed, and the palace was silent, except for the distant sound of the sea, I locked my bedroom door, turned on the small lamp beside my bed, and opened the Bible for the first time.
My hands were shaking. I felt like I was doing something dangerous, something that could get me in serious trouble if I was caught.
But I could not stop myself. I flipped through the pages, scanning the strange names and unfamiliar stories.
I had been taught that the Bible was corrupted, that it had been changed by Christians to suit their false beliefs, that it contradicted the Quran.
But as I read, I found myself confused. The language was beautiful, the stories were compelling, and some of the teachings seemed to echo things I had heard before.
Ideas about justice and mercy and faith. I did not understand everything I read. But I kept turning the pages, drawn by something I could not name.
I read about a man named Jesus who healed the sick, who fed the hungry, who spoke with authority and love.
I read his words in the book of Matthew, words that made my chest feel tight.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
I stopped and read that line again. Sons of God. In Islam, we were taught that we were slaves of Allah, servants, people who existed to obey and submit.
But here was a teaching that said we could be called sons. It felt both wrong and strangely comforting at the same time.
I read until my eyes burned with exhaustion. Then I hid the Bible under my mattress and lay down, my mind racing.
I could not tell anyone about this. If my father found out, I would be punished.
If Shik Ibrahim found out, he would be furious. But I also knew I could not stop.
Something had awakened inside me. A hunger I did not know I had. Over the next few weeks, I continued to read in secret.
Late at night or early in the morning before anyone else was awake, I would pull out the Bible and read by the light of my phone or my bedside lamp.
I read about Jesus turning water into wine, about him calming storms, about him forgiving people who had done terrible things.
I read the story of the prodigal son, a young man who abandoned his father, wasted his inheritance, and then returned home expecting nothing but punishment.
Instead, his father ran to him, embraced him, and threw a party to celebrate his return.
I read that story three times, and each time I felt tears prick at my eyes.
I did not understand why it affected me so deeply. But it did. The more I read, the more confused I became.
Everything I had been taught about Christianity said it was a religion of lies, of corruption, of sherk.
But the words I was reading did not feel like lies. They felt like truth, like light, like something my soul had been searching for without knowing it.
I started to compare what I read in the Bible with what I had learned from the Quran.
In the Quran, Allah was described as merciful and compassionate, but also as distant, sovereign, unknowable.
We were told to submit, to obey, to fear his judgment. But in the Bible, God was described as a father, someone who loved his children, who sent his son to die for them, who desired relationship, not just obedience.
I did not know what to do with that difference. I tried to push it away to tell myself that Shik Ibrahim was right, that the Bible had been corrupted.
But the more I read, the harder it became to believe that. At the same time, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt.
I was betraying my family, my faith, my entire identity. I was doing exactly what I had been warned against my whole life.
I was allowing Christian ideas to enter my mind, to take root, to grow. And yet, I could not stop.
I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into a dark abyss, terrified to jump, but unable to step back.
The night Jesus appeared to me began like any other night in our Jedha palace, with the call to Isaiah prayer echoing from the mosque on King Abdulaziz road and the sound of the Red Sea waves crashing softly against the Cornesh in the distance.
It was a Thursday evening in September, just 2 weeks after my 12th birthday, and the air was still thick with summer heat, even though the sun had set hours ago.
My family had gathered for dinner in the main hall. And afterward, my father had retreated to his office to handle business calls while my mother took my sisters upstairs to prepare them for bed.
I told everyone I was tired and went to my room early, but sleep was the last thing on my mind.
For weeks now, I had been reading the Bible in secret, and every page I turned seemed to pull me further away from everything I had ever known.
That night, I locked my bedroom door, pulled the black leather Bible from its hiding place under my mattress, and sat cross-legged on my bed with the lamp casting a warm circle of light around me.
I had been reading the Gospel of John for the past few nights. And I was captivated by the way it described Jesus.
Not as a prophet the way the Quran described Isa, but as the son of God, as the word made flesh, as someone who claimed to be equal with God himself.
It terrified me and fascinated me at the same time. That night I read chapter 14 where Jesus told his disciples, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.
No one comes to the father except through me. I stopped and stared at those words, but I did not pray to Allah.
For the first time in my life, I prayed to Jesus. My heart was pounding as I knelt beside my bed.
My hands trembling as I pressed them together. I did not know how to pray to him.
I did not know the right words or the right posture. In Islam, prayer was structured, ritualistic, precise.
You performed wudoo. You faced Mecca. You recited specific verses in Arabic. You bowed and prostrated in a particular order, but this was different.
This was raw and uncertain and terrifying. I closed my eyes and whispered into the silence of my room.
My voice barely audible even to myself. Jesus, if you are real, if you are truly the son of God, please show me.
I do not know what is true anymore. I do not know who to believe.
My whole life I have been taught that you are just a prophet, that Christians have corrupted your message, that following you is sherk, the greatest sin in Islam.
But when I read your words, I feel something I have never felt before. I feel peace.
I feel love. I feel like you are calling me. So please, if you are real, show me.
Help me to know the truth. The words spilled out of me like water from a broken dam.
And when I finished, I stayed there on my knees, waiting, listening, hoping for something, anything to happen.
But the room remained silent. The air remained still. I felt foolish, embarrassed, like I had just exposed myself to nothing and no one.
After a few minutes, I stood up, climbed into bed, and turned off the lamp.
I lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, feeling empty and confused. Eventually, exhaustion overtook me and I drifted into sleep.
What happened next changed my life forever. I do not know if it was a dream or a vision or something beyond either of those words, but it felt more real than anything I had ever experienced.
I found myself standing in a place I had never seen before. A vast open space filled with light.
Not the harsh blinding light of the sun, but a soft golden light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
The ground beneath my feet was smooth and white like polished marble, and the air was warm and still.
I looked around trying to understand where I was, but there were no buildings, no landmarks, no horizon, just light and space stretching out in every direction.
And then I saw him. He was walking toward me from a distance. His figure growing clearer with every step.
He was dressed in a white robe that seemed to glow with its own light, and his presence filled the entire space with a weight I could feel in my chest.
I wanted to run, but my feet would not move. I wanted to look away, but my eyes were fixed on him.
As he came closer, I saw his face, and I knew immediately who he was.
It was Jesus. Not the Jesus of paintings or statues or icons, but a living, breathing person whose eyes held more love and more authority than I had ever seen in any human being.
He stopped a few feet in front of me, and for a long moment, he simply looked at me.
His gaze was gentle but piercing, as though he could see every thought, every fear, every sin I had ever committed.
I felt completely exposed, and yet I did not feel condemned. I felt known. I felt seen.
And then he spoke. His voice was unlike anything I had ever heard. It was not loud, but it filled the space around me, resonating in my chest, in my bones, in my soul.
He said, “My name, Sultan.” Hearing my name from his lips broke something inside me.
Tears started streaming down my face before I even realized I was crying. He stepped closer and I fell to my knees, unable to stand in his presence.
“Sultan,” he said again. And this time, his voice was filled with a tenderness that shattered every wall I had built around my heart.
“I have been calling you. I have been waiting for you, and now you are here.”
I could not speak. I could not breathe. All I could do was weep. He knelt down in front of me, so close that I could see the scars on his hands.
The marks where nails had been driven through his flesh. I stared at those scars and the weight of what I had done, of who I had been, came crashing down on me like a tidal wave.
I had ordered the deaths of his followers. I had signed execution orders with the same hands I now held up in desperate prayer.
I had hated Christians, despised them, seen them as enemies worthy of death. And yet here he was kneeling before me, looking at me with nothing but love.
I am sorry I choked out, my voice breaking. I am so sorry. I did not know.
I did not understand. I killed your people. I hated you. I thought I was serving God.
But I was so wrong. Please forgive me. Please. He reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder.
And the moment he touched me, I felt a warmth flood through my entire body.
It was like fire, but it did not burn. It was like water, but it did not drown.
It was pure, overwhelming love, and it washed over every dark corner of my soul.
Every place where guilt and shame and hatred had lived. I have already forgiven you, Sultan, he said.
And his words hit me with the force of a lightning bolt. I forgave you before you ever sinned.
I forgave you when I died on the cross. I forgave you when I rose from the grave.
And I am here now to tell you that you are mine. You have always been mine and I am calling you to follow me.
I looked up at him, my vision blurred by tears. And I saw the smile on his face.
It was a smile of pure joy of a father welcoming his son home, of a shepherd finding his lost sheep.
And in that moment, every question I had ever had, every doubt, every fear, every argument melted away.
I knew beyond any shadow of doubt that he was real, that he was God, that he had come for me.
I knew that everything I had been taught about him was wrong, and that everything he said was true.
I felt a peace that I had never known in all my 12 years of life.
A peace that was not dependent on my performance, not dependent on my obedience to rules, not dependent on my family or my status or my wealth.
A peace that came from being loved completely, unconditionally, eternally. I do not know how long I stayed in that place.
Time seemed to have no meaning there, but eventually the light began to fade, and I felt myself being pulled back, like I was being lifted out of deep water and brought to the surface.
I opened my eyes and found myself lying in my bed in my room in Jedha.
The early morning light just beginning to filter through the curtains. I got out of bed and fell to my knees on the floor.
And for the first time in my life, I prayed a prayer that came entirely from my heart.
Not in Arabic, not in formal memorized phrases, just simple, honest words. Jesus, thank you.
Thank you for coming to me. Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for loving me.
I do not know what happens next. Over the next few days, I moved through my normal routines like a ghost.
I attended my lessons with Shik Ibrahim, memorizing Quran verses and nodding along as he warned me about the dangers of Christianity.
And a one seemed to notice that anything had changed. But everything had changed. I continued reading the Bible in secret.
But now the words came alive in a way they never had before. I understood them.
I felt them. I knew they were true. I read about the early Christians who were persecuted for their faith, who were thrown into prison, who were killed for refusing to deny Jesus.
And I realized that I was part of that same story. Now, I was one of them, a follower of Jesus in a place where following him could cost me my life.
But I was not afraid. Or rather, I was afraid. But the fear was overshadowed by something greater.
By love, by peace, by the certainty that no matter what happened, Jesus was with me, and that was enough.
The weight of my secret grew heavier with each passing day, pressing down on my chest like a stone, I could not move.
I was 12 years old, living in a royal palace in Jedha, surrounded by wealth and privilege and the absolute certainty of Islamic faith.
And yet, I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life. Every morning I woke up and put on a mask, pretending to be the same sultan everyone expected me to be.
The obedient son, the beautiful prince, the faithful Muslim. But inside, everything had changed. I belonged to Jesus now.
And the gap between who I was and who I was pretending to be grew wider every day until I felt like I was being torn in half.
I knew I could not keep living this double life. I knew that sooner or later I would have to tell my family the truth.
But the thought of that conversation filled me with a terror so deep I could barely breathe when I imagined it.
I had seen what happened to people who left Islam in Saudi Arabia. I had signed execution orders for Christians myself.
I knew exactly what my father was capable of, what the religious authorities would demand, what the law required.
And yet, despite all of that, I felt Jesus calling me to speak, to confess, to step out of the shadows and into the light, no matter what it cost.
The turning point came 3 weeks after my encounter with Jesus on a Friday afternoon after Jumua prayer.
We prayed alongside hundreds of other men. All of us standing shoulder-to-shoulder in perfectly straight rows, bowing and prostrating in unison while the Imam delivered a sermon about the dangers of Western influence and the importance of remaining faithful to the pure teachings of Islam.
I went through all the motions, but my heart was not in it. My heart was with Jesus.
As we drove back to the palace in my father’s black SUV, he turned to me with a satisfied smile.
You prayed well today, Sultan. He said, I am proud of you. You are becoming a man, a true servant of Allah.
His words, which once would have filled me with pride, now felt like knives. I looked at him at his strong profile and his neatly trimmed beard at the confidence in his eyes, and I felt a wave of love and grief wash over me.
I loved my father. I respected him. But I also knew that I could no longer be the son he wanted me to be.
I could no longer serve Allah. I served Jesus now and I had to tell him.
That evening after dinner, I asked my father if I could speak with him privately.
He looked surprised but nodded and led me to his office, the same room where he had given me my first execution order 2 years earlier.
Father, I need to tell you something. Something important. Something that is going to upset you, but I cannot keep it inside anymore.
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. Go on. I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
I have been reading the Bible. I found one in the storage room a few weeks ago, and I have been reading it in secret.
And father, I know this is going to sound crazy, but Jesus appeared to me.
He came to me in a vision, and he spoke to me, and he told me that I belong to him.
And I believe him. I believe that Jesus is the son of God, that he died for my sins, that he rose from the dead.
I believe that he is the way, the truth, and the life. I am a Christian now, father.
I followed Jesus. The silence that followed was so thick I could almost touch it.
My father stared at me, his face completely expressionless, and for a moment I thought he had not heard me.
What did you just say? His voice was low and dangerous. The kind of voice that made palace servants freeze in their tracks.
I forced myself to meet his eyes. I said, “I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus.”
He stood up so fast his chair almost tipped over and he slammed his hand down on the desk with a force that made me jump.
You are a fool, a stupid, deceived child. Do you have any idea what you are saying?
Do you understand what you have just confessed to me? This is not truth, Sultan.
This is deception. This is the work of Satan. Christians have poisoned your mind with their lies, and you have been foolish enough to believe them.
I shook my head, my voice trembling, but steady. It is not a lie. Father, Jesus is real.
He came to me. He forgave me for all the terrible things I have done.
He loves me and I love him. My father’s face turned red. And for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me.
Instead, he let go of me and stepped back, his chest heaving. Get out of my sight.
Go to your room. I need to think about what to do with you. I left his office with my heartbreaking.
Knowing I had just set something in motion that could not be stopped, I went to my room and locked the door.
And I fell on my knees and prayed to Jesus, asking him for strength, for courage, for protection.
I did not know what my father would do. I did not know if I would be punished, imprisoned, or worse.
But I knew that I had done the right thing. I had spoken the truth.
And no matter what happened next, Jesus was with me. Within an hour, my mother came to my room.
She did not knock. She used her key to unlock the door and walked in.
Her face pale and streaked with tears. Sultan, what have you done? She whispered, her voice breaking.
You are going to destroy this family. Do you understand that you are going to bring shame on all of us?
Your father is talking about sending you away about having you examined by scholars about she stopped unable to finish the sentence.
I knew what she could not say. The next morning, my father summoned the entire family to the main hall.
My father pointed at me, “Tell them what you told me last night.” I stood in the center of the room, feeling all their eyes on me, and I spoke as clearly and calmly as I could.
I have become a follower of Jesus Christ. I believe he is the son of God, that he died for my sins, and that he rose from the dead.
I believe he is the only way to God. I am a Christian. The room erupted.
My uncle College shouted that I had been brainwashed. Shik Mansor demanded that I be taken to scholars in Medina to have the demons cast out of me.
My mother wept. My sisters stared at me in shock. But in the midst of all the chaos, something unexpected happened.
My youngest sister, Ila, who was only 7 years old, stood up and walked over to me.
She took my hand and looked up at me with her big, serious eyes. “Sultan, did Jesus really come to you?”
She asked softly. I knelt down so I was at her level. Yes, Ila. He did.
She thought about that for a moment, then nodded. Then I believe you. Her words silenced the room.
My father stared at her in disbelief. Ila, come here now. But she did not move.
She stayed by my side, holding my hand. And in that moment, I saw something shift in the atmosphere.
A crack in the wall of certainty that had surrounded my family for generations. My father ordered me confined to my room.
He said he needed time to decide what to do, to consult with religious leaders to figure out how to handle this crisis without it becoming public.
I was not allowed to leave my quarters. My meals were brought to me by servants who would not meet my eyes.
I was cut off from the rest of the family, isolated, alone. But I was not truly alone.
Jesus was with me. I spent hours every day praying, reading the Bible, worshiping him in whispers so no one would hear.
And I prayed for my family. I prayed that God would open their eyes the way he had opened mine.
I prayed that they would encounter Jesus the way I had. I prayed for a miracle and God in his infinite mercy answered that prayer in a way I never could have imagined.
3 days after my confession, my sister Nor came to my room late at night.
She slipped inside and locked the door behind her. Her face pale in the moonlight coming through the window.
Sultan, I need to tell you something. She whispered urgently. Last night, I had a dream.
I saw a man in white and he told me his name was Jesus. He said he loved me and that he was calling me to follow him.
I woke up and I could not stop crying. I do not understand what is happening, but I think he is real.
I think you were telling the truth. I pulled her into a hug, tears streaming down my face.
He is real, Nor. He is so real and he loves you so much. She pulled back and looked at me with wide eyes.
What do I do? I took her hands. You tell him you believe. You give your life to him.
You trust him with everything. And right there in my locked room in the middle of the night, my 9-year-old sister prayed and gave her life to Jesus Christ.
It was the first conversion, but it would not be the last. I did not sleep that night after Nor left my room.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, my heart racing with a mixture of joy and fear that I could barely contain.
My sister had met Jesus. The same Jesus who had appeared to me, who had forgiven me, who had called me his own, had now reached out to her.
It was a miracle I had prayed for but had not truly expected to see.
The next afternoon, my mother came to my room. She entered without knocking, closing the door softly behind her.
Her eyes were swollen from crying, and she looked like she had not slept in days.
She stood there for a long moment, just looking at me, and I could see the war happening inside her, the struggle between the faith she had known her entire life and something new that was pulling at her heart.
Sultan,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need you to tell me again what happened.
I need you to tell me everything about this Jesus.” I sat up on my bed and gestured for her to sit beside me.
She hesitated, then sat down, keeping a small distance between us as though she was afraid of getting too close to something dangerous.
I told her everything. I told her about finding the Bible, about reading it in secret, about the confusion and the guilt and the growing sense that what I was reading was true.
I told her about the night I prayed and asked Jesus to reveal himself to me.
And then I told her about the vision, about standing in that place of light, about seeing Jesus face to face, about hearing him speak my name, about the overwhelming love that had washed over me and changed everything.
As I spoke, tears began to stream down my mother’s face. She did not try to stop them or wipe them away.
Then she said something that shocked me. I had a dream last night. Her voice trembled.
I was in a garden, more beautiful than anything I have ever seen. There were flowers everywhere, and the air was warm and sweet, and there was a man there standing by a fountain.
He turned and looked at me, and his eyes were so kind, so full of love.
He said, “Amira, I have been waiting for you. Come to me.” I asked him who he was.
And he smiled and said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” When I woke up, I knew it was Jesus.
I tried to tell myself it was just a dream, that it meant nothing, that I was being influenced by what you said.
But I cannot stop thinking about it. I cannot stop feeling his presence. Sultan, what is happening to me?
I took her hand and this time she did not pull away. Jesus is calling you mother just like he called me.
He loves you but I have been a Muslim my entire life. I have prayed to Allah five times a day since I was a child.
I have fasted during Ramadan. I have made Hajj to Mecca. I have done everything I was supposed to do.
How can I just abandon all of that? You are not abandoning God. Mother, you are finding him, the real him.
But what will happen to us? What will your father do? What will happen to our family?
I did not have an answer to that. I did not know what would happen.
But I knew that Jesus was bigger than our fears. Two conversions now. First, nor now my mother.
Jesus was moving through our family like a wave. Unstoppable and beautiful. But the most impossible conversion was still to come.
That evening, my father summoned my mother to his office. I did not know what they talked about, but I could hear raised voices through the walls.
My father’s anger and my mother’s quiet but firm responses. The conversation went on for over an hour.
When my mother finally emerged, her face was calm despite the storm. I knew she had just walked through.
She came to my room and told me what had happened. I told him, she said simply, I told your father that I believe in Jesus, that I had a dream, that I cannot deny what I have experienced.
He is furious. He said, I have betrayed him, betrayed our family, betrayed Islam. But Sultan, I do not regret it.
For the first time in my life, I feel free. My father did not come to see me that night or the next day.
He shut himself in his office, refusing to eat, refusing to speak to anyone except Shik Mansor and my uncle Khaled.
I knew he was trying to figure out what to do, how to contain this crisis before it destroyed everything he had built.
But what he did not know was that God was already working on him, too.
On the third night after my mother’s conversion, I was awakened in the early hours of the morning by a knock on my door.
I opened it to find my father standing there and the sight of him took my breath away.
His eyes were red and swollen. His face was pale. He looked like a man who had been wrestling with something far bigger than himself and had lost.
“Can I come in?” He asked, his voice. I stepped aside and let him enter.
He walked to the window and stood there looking out at the dark sea. His hands clasped behind his back.
For a long time, he said nothing. Then without turning around, he began to speak.
Last night I had a vision, he said quietly. I was standing in a courtroom.
The room was filled with people, thousands of them, all watching me. And there was a judge sitting on a throne, a figure of such power and authority that I could not even look at him directly.
He asked me to account for my life, for everything I had done. And Sultan, I tried.
I listed all my good deeds, all my prayers, all my charity, all my pilgrimages.
I told him I had been faithful to Islam, that I had defended the faith, that I had raised my children to follow Allah.
But when I finished, he said, “None of that is enough. You are guilty. You stand condemned.”
I fell to my knees and begged for mercy. And then another man stepped forward.
He stood between me and the judge and he said, “His debt has been paid.
I paid it with my blood.” The judge looked at him and nodded and I was declared innocent, free.
I looked up at the man who had saved me and I saw the scars on his hands and I knew Sultan.
I knew it was Jesus. My father turned to face me and I saw tears streaming down his face, something I had never seen in my entire life.
I do not understand how this is possible, he said, his voice breaking. I have spent my whole life serving Allah.
I have persecuted Christians. I have signed orders for their deaths. I have taught you to do the same.
How can the God of the Christians forgive someone like me? I crossed the room and stood in front of my father, this man who had always seemed so strong, so untouchable, so certain of everything.
And I saw him now as he truly was, a broken sinner in desperate need of grace, just like me, because that is who Jesus is, father, I said softly.
He does not forgive us because we deserve it. He forgives us because he loves us.
That is the whole message of the gospel. We are guilty, but he paid our debt.
We are condemned, but he took our punishment. All we have to do is believe in him, trust in him, surrender to him.
My father sank into a chair and put his face in his hands. I have been so wrong.
He whispered about everything about Islam, about Christians, about God. I have built my entire life on a lie.
I knelt beside him, but it is not too late. Father, Jesus is offering you forgiveness right now.
He is offering you life. All you have to do is receive it. And there in the quiet of that early morning, Prince Ficil, a man who had wielded power and authority over thousands, who had defended Islam with ruthless conviction, who had ordered the deaths of Christians without a second thought, bowed his head and prayed to Jesus Christ.
He confessed his sins. He acknowledged his need for a savior. He surrendered his life to the one he had spent years opposing.
And Jesus in his infinite mercy forgave him, saved him, made him new. When my father lifted his head, his face was transformed.
The hardness was gone. The anger was gone. In its place was peace, the kind of peace that only comes from knowing you are fully loved and fully forgiven.
He pulled me into an embrace, something he had rarely done. And he wept on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Thank you for having the courage to tell me the truth.
Over the next few days, the transformation continued to spread. My uncle Khaled, who had been one of the loudest voices demanding that I be punished, came to my father with his own story of a dream in which Jesus had appeared to him.
My younger sister, Ila, who had been the first to defend me, had her own encounter with Jesus during a quiet afternoon in the palace garden.
Even Shik Mansor, my father’s most trusted adviser, came forward with tears in his eyes and confessed that he could no longer deny what God was doing.
One by one, every member of my immediate family and several of our closest household members gave their lives to Christ.
It was not a decision made lightly. Every single one of them understood what it meant.
We were committing ourselves to a path that could lead to imprisonment, exile, or death.
We were turning our backs on the religion that had defined our family for generations.
The religion that was woven into the very fabric of Saudi society. But we could not deny what we had experienced.
We could not unsee Jesus. We could not unhear his voice. We could not unfeill his love.
And so we made the choice together to follow him no matter what it cost.
We began meeting secretly in my father’s office late at night, reading the Bible together, praying together, worshiping Jesus in whispered songs and heartfelt prayers.
My father, who had once taught me to hate Christians, now led us in studying the teachings of Christ.
My mother, who had spent her whole life covering herself and submitting to the rigid rules of Islam, now experienced the freedom of being called a daughter of God.
My sisters, so young and innocent, encountered a savior who loved them not for their obedience, but simply because they were his.
We knew we could not stay in Saudi Arabia. It was only a matter of time before someone outside our inner circle discovered what had happened.
And when they did, the consequences would be swift and brutal. My father began making quiet arrangements, contacting people he trusted outside the kingdom, seeking advice on how we could leave safely.
It was a terrifying and complicated process. We were not just any family. We were royalty.
Our movements were watched. Our decisions were scrutinized. Leaving the country without raising suspicion would require careful planning and divine intervention.
But we trusted that the same Jesus who had saved us would also make a way for us to escape.
As we prepared to leave, we also began to think about what our story could mean for others.
My father, ever the strategic thinker, suggested that we document what had happened to us, that we share our testimony with the world.
There are people in Saudi Arabia and across the Muslim world who are searching for truth just like we were, he said during one of our secret meetings.
If we stay silent, if we run and hide and never speak of what Jesus has done for us, we are wasting the gift he has given us.
But if we tell our story, if we let people know that Jesus is real, that he is calling Muslims to himself, that he can save even people like us, then maybe others will have the courage to seek him too.
It was a radical idea, a dangerous idea. Going public with our conversions would make us targets.
It would ensure that we could never return to Saudi Arabia. It would bring shame and anger upon the rest of our extended family, but it would also bring glory to Jesus.
And in the end, that was all that mattered. We made the decision together. We would leave Saudi Arabia.
And once we were safe, we would tell the world what Jesus had done. The plan to leave Saudi Arabia came together faster than any of us expected.
As though Jesus himself was orchestrating every detail, opening doors that should have remained locked and smoothing paths that should have been impossible to walk.
My father worked quietly with contacts he had cultivated over years of business dealings outside the kingdom.
People who owed him favors, people who could be trusted to keep secrets. He arranged for private flights, secured temporary housing in a country that would grant us asylum, and transferred enough money to ensure we would not be left destitute when we abandoned everything else.
It was strange watching my father operate in this new mode, using the same skills and connections he had once employed to protect Islam, now being redirected to protect his family as we fled from it.
We set the date for our departure exactly 2 weeks after my father’s conversion. The next morning, we gathered in the main hall just after far prayer, though none of us had actually prayed it.
We went through the motions of our normal routine so the servants would not suspect anything.
My mother wore her Abbya and headscarf. My father dressed in his usual white th.
My sisters and I put on the clothes we always wore for travel. We took only what we could carry in small bags without raising suspicion.
A few changes of clothes, important documents, and most precious of all, the Bible I had found in the storage room, now worn and marked with notes and tears.
Everything else, the jewelry, the money, the possessions accumulated over generations we left behind. My father had already moved the financial assets we would need, but the physical wealth of our family remained in the palace.
Gold, art, furniture, cars, none of it mattered anymore. The drive to the airport was tense and silent.
We landed in Dubai 2 hours later, but we did not stay. We transferred immediately to another flight.
This one bound for a European country that had agreed to grant us asylum, a place my father had chosen because of its strong Christian community and its laws protecting religious freedom.
The journey took another 7 hours and by the time we finally landed, we were exhausted, emotionally, and physically drained.
But we were safe. My father spent hours on the phone during those early days, coordinating the final transfers of assets, closing accounts, severing ties.
He also began reaching out to Christian leaders and organizations, telling them our story, asking for guidance on what we should do next.
It was during one of these conversations that the idea of going public with our testimony really began to take shape.
A leader from a large international Christian media organization suggested that we record a video sharing our story, explaining who we were, what had happened to us, and why we had left everything to follow Jesus.
“Your story is powerful,” the man told my father over a video call. “It is exactly the kind of testimony that can shake the Muslim world.
People need to know that Jesus is still calling Muslims to himself, that he is still performing miracles, that no one is beyond his reach.
If you are willing to share this, we can help you get it out to millions of people.
My father brought the idea to our family that evening. We sat together in the small living room of our apartment, so different from the grand halls of our palace, and we talked about what it would mean to go public.
We knew it would bring danger. There were people in Saudi Arabia who would want us dead for what we had done.
For the shame we had brought on our family name for the betrayal of Islam.
Going public would make us targets, would ensure we could never return, would put a permanent mark on us.
But we also knew it was the right thing to do. Jesus had not saved us just so we could hide.
He had saved us so we could testify to his goodness, so we could be living proof that he is real and that he loves Muslims just as much as he loves anyone else.
We agreed to do it. The media organization sent a team to our apartment with cameras and recording equipment.
They interviewed each of us separately asking us to share our individual stories of encountering Jesus.
I told them about finding the Bible, about the vision, about the fear and the joy of discovering the truth.
No, who was only nine, spoke with a clarity and confidence that amazed everyone in the room, describing her dream of Jesus and the peace she felt when she gave her life to him.
My mother talked about her years of striving to be a good Muslim, always feeling like she was never enough, and the incredible freedom she experienced when she realized that Jesus had already done everything necessary for her salvation.
My father’s testimony was the most powerful. He sat in front of the camera, this man who had once ordered the execution of Christians, and he wept as he confessed his sins and proclaimed the forgiveness he had found in Christ.
He spoke directly to other Muslims, especially those in positions of power and authority, telling them that no one was too far gone, no one was too guilty, no one was beyond the reach of Jesus.
When the interviews were finished, the team compiled everything into a single video, just over 30 minutes long, and they prepared to release it on social media and Christian news platforms around the world.
The video went live on a Sunday morning. Within hours, it had thousands of views.
By the end of the day, it had hundreds of thousands. By the end of the week, it had millions.
Our story spread like wildfire across the internet, shared and reshared by Christians who were amazed and encouraged, and by Muslims who were shocked and outraged.
News outlets picked it up. Headlines appeared in multiple languages. Saudi royal family converts to Christianity.
Prince abandons Islam for Jesus. Entire household flees Saudi Arabia after encountering Christ. The response was overwhelming.
We received messages from Christians all over the world. People telling us they were praying for us, thanking us for our courage, praising God for what he had done in our lives.
But we also received threats, angry messages from Muslims calling us traitors, apostates, deserving of death.
Some were just words, but others were specific and detailed, promising that we would be hunted down and killed for what we had done.
The government of Saudi Arabia issued a statement denouncing us, stripping my father of his titles and properties, declaring us enemies of the state.
Members of our extended family released their own statements, disowning us, cursing us, claiming they had no connection to us.
It was painful to read those words to know that people we had loved and who had once loved us now saw us as the worst kind of betrayers.
But it did not shake our faith. If anything, it strengthened it because we knew we were experiencing exactly what Jesus had promised.
That following him would cost us everything, but that he was worth it. In the months that followed, we began to build a new life.
We connected with a local church, a vibrant community of believers who welcomed us with open arms and helped us navigate our new reality.
We were baptized together in a service that felt like a public declaration of everything God had done.
Descending into the water as former Muslims and rising as new creations in Christ. My father, who had once been a prince, now served humbly in the church, helping with setup and cleanup, attending Bible studies, learning to worship with hands raised and voice lifted.
My mother, who had spent her life in subservience and fear, now laughed freely and spoke boldly about the love of Jesus.
My sisters grew in their faith, attending a Christian school, making friends, experiencing the joy of being children who were loved unconditionally by their heavenly father.
And I, at 12 years old, began to understand the calling God had placed on my life.
I started speaking at churches and Christian events, sharing my testimony, encouraging other young people to take their faith seriously, to be courageous, to trust that Jesus is always worth the cost.
Our story continued to spread, reaching into the darkest corners of the Muslim world, places where the gospel had barely penetrated.
And we began to hear reports of other Muslims who had encountered Jesus after hearing our testimony.
Secret believers in Saudi Arabia who had been afraid to speak out now found courage.
Seekers in other Islamic countries who had questions about Christianity now had a story that resonated with them.
Entire families in some cases began to explore the claims of Christ because they saw what he had done for us.
We also began working with organizations that helped other persecuted believers escape from dangerous situations using our experience and resources to provide a pathway to freedom for those who needed it.
My father with his business acumen and connections became an advocate and fundraiser. My mother started a ministry to women who had left Islam, offering them support and encouragement.
Even my sisters, young as they were, participated by recording videos and writing letters to encourage children in restricted nations.
We had lost our palace, our wealth, our status, our country. But we had gained something far greater.
We had gained Jesus. We had gained eternal life. We had gained a purpose that transcended anything we had known before.
Looking back now, I can see the hand of God in every step of the journey.
He used a forbidden Bible hidden in a storage room to plant a seed. He used my desperate prayer to reveal himself.
He used my confession to start a ripple that transformed my entire family. He used our obedience to create a testimony that would reach millions.
None of it was accidental. None of it was luck. It was all Jesus from beginning to end doing what only he can do.
Calling people out of darkness and into his marvelous light. We still face challenges. We still receive threats.
We still grieve the loss of family members who have rejected us. We still navigate the difficulties of living in a foreign country, learning a new language, adapting to a new culture.
But none of that compares to the joy of knowing Jesus, of being known by him, of walking in the freedom and peace that only he can give.
This is our story. This is our testimony. And our prayer is that it will inspire you wherever you are, whatever you have done to seek Jesus for yourself.
Because he is calling you too, just like he called me, just like he called my family.
And he will never stop calling until every last one of his sheep has come
