My name is Shika Fajair and I need to tell you something that changed everything I thought I knew about life, death, and eternity.

What I’m about to share with you is true. Every word of it happened to me.

I know some of you watching this right now will think I’ve lost my mind.

Others will call me a liar. Some will say I’ve been deceived. But I cannot stay silent about what I saw, what I Some will say I’ve been deceived.

But I cannot stay silent about what I saw, what I experienced, and who I met on the other side of death.

I’m afraid as I tell you this story, not because I doubt what happened to me, but because I know what it will cost me.

In fact, it has already cost me everything. My family, my home, my country, my identity as I knew it.

But even with all I’ve lost, I would make the same choice again because what I gained is worth more than everything I left behind.

Let me start at the beginning.

Before the night that changed everything, I was born into the Kuwaiti royal family.

Not one of the prominent princesses you might read about in magazines or see at international events, but still royalty, still part of a world most people will never see or understand.

My life was one of extraordinary privilege. We lived in a palace with marble floors so polished you could see your reflection in them.

Crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings painted with gold leaf. My bedroom was larger than most people’s entire homes.

I had everything money could buy. Clothes from Paris. Jewelry that could feed a village for years.

Cars I never drove because I always had drivers. Servants who anticipated my needs before I even spoke them.

I traveled the world. I ate at the finest restaurants. I wanted for nothing material.

But here’s what nobody tells you about living in a golden cage. It’s still a cage.

From the time I was a little girl, I understood that my life wasn’t really mine.

It belonged to my family’s reputation, to tradition, to expectations I didn’t choose but had to meet.

I learned early to smile at the right times, to say the right things, to never question, never rebel, never bring shame.

I was raised as a devoted Muslim. This wasn’t just about religion for us. It was about identity, about honor, about who we were as a family and as a people.

My first memories include my mother teaching me to pray. I remember the feel of the prayer mat under my small knees.

The sound of the call to prayer echoing through our home five times a day.

The weight of my hijab when I first started wearing it. I loved Allah. Or at least I thought I did.

I tried to love him the way I was taught. I prayed faithfully. During Ramadan, I fasted from sunrise to sunset, even when it was difficult.

I read the Quran, though I’m ashamed to say I didn’t always understand what I was reading.

I just knew I was supposed to read it. We had imams who came to our home to teach us.

Respected men with long beards and serious faces who spoke about paradise and hell, about following the straight path, about the importance of good deeds.

I listened to them with reverence. These were men who had memorized the entire Quran.

Men who led prayers at important mosques. Men who seemed so certain of everything. I believed what they taught me.

Why wouldn’t I? They were learned. They were respected. They had dedicated their entire lives to studying Islam.

And more than that, this was the faith of my family, my ancestors, my people.

To question it felt like betraying everything I was. But if I’m honest with you, and I must be honest now, there were always questions hiding in the corners of my heart.

Questions I pushed down because I was afraid of them. Questions I never dared to speak out loud.

I would pray five times a day, but I never felt like anyone was listening.

I would complete my prayers, say all the right words, perform all the right movements.

But when I was done, there was only silence. I told myself that was normal, that Allah was distant and unknowable.

That feeling close to God was not something I should expect. I would try to be good, to do good deeds, to follow all the rules, but I never felt like it was enough.

There was always something more I should be doing. Some way I was falling short.

The fear was always there, lurking underneath everything. What if I don’t make it to paradise?

What if my good deeds don’t outweigh my bad ones? What if I’m not enough?

But I buried these feelings. I put on my jewelry, my expensive clothes, my practiced smile.

I attended family gatherings and religious celebrations. I said the right things. I played my part.

No one knew that inside I felt empty. That at night alone in my enormous bedroom with its silk curtains and designer furniture, I sometimes cried without really knowing why.

That I felt like I was living behind glass, watching life happen, but never quite feeling fully alive myself.

The months before my near-death experience were strange. I started having dreams I couldn’t explain.

Not every night, but often enough that I began to dread going to sleep. In these dreams, I was always searching for something.

I would be walking through dark corridors, opening door after door, but never finding what I was looking for.

I would wake up with my heart pounding, feeling like something was trying to get my attention, but I didn’t know what.

I told no one about these dreams. What would I say? That I was unsettled, that I felt like something was coming.

They would think I was being dramatic or ungrateful for all I had. There was also a restlessness in my spirit that I couldn’t shake.

I found myself watching my family members and wondering if they ever felt the way I did.

Did my mother ever question? Did my sisters ever feel this emptiness? Or was it just me?

Was something wrong with me? I started noticing things I had never paid attention to before.

The way the imam’s voice sounded almost mechanical when he recited prayers. The way people seemed to go through the motions of religion without any real joy.

The way everyone was so concerned with appearing righteous but so little concerned with actually knowing God.

I pushed these thoughts away. They felt dangerous, disloyal. I remember the last normal day of my life with such clarity.

It was an ordinary day. Nothing special about it. I woke up in my comfortable bed.

I said my morning prayers. I had breakfast brought to my room on a silver tray.

I spent time with my sisters talking about meaningless things, laughing about some gossip we’d heard.

We had a family dinner that evening. The dining room was filled with the sound of conversation, the clinking of silverware on fine china.

My father sat at the head of the table, stern as always. My mother fussed over the food, making sure everyone had enough.

My siblings joked with each other. Everything was as it had always been. If I had known it was the last time I would sit at that table, would I have said something different?

Would I have looked at each face longer, tried to memorize every detail? Would I have told them I love them even though we never really said such things in my family?

But I didn’t know. So, I just ate my dinner and listened to the conversation and played my part, same as always.

After dinner, I went to my room. I took off my jewelry and carefully put it away.

I removed my abaya and hung it in my closet full of expensive clothes. I washed my face with expensive creams.

I said my nighttime prayers, words I had said thousands of times before. Then I climbed into my bed with its silk sheets and the soft pillows.

I remember thinking how tired I felt, more tired than usual. My chest felt heavy, like there was a weight on it.

I told myself it was just stress. Maybe I was coming down with something. I would feel better in the morning.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, completely unaware that I would not wake up in the morning.

At least not in the way I expected. It was sometime in the middle of the night when I woke up.

At first, I thought I had been having another one of those disturbing dreams. But then I realized this was different.

This was real. I couldn’t breathe properly. There was a sharp pain in my chest like someone was pressing down on me with both hands.

I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The room was spinning. I was sweating even though I felt cold.

Fear gripped me. Real primal fear. Something was very wrong. I managed to reach for the bell we kept beside our beds to call the servants.

My hand was shaking so badly I almost couldn’t press it, but I did. I heard it ringing somewhere far away in the servants quarters.

Everything after that happened so fast and yet seemed to move in slow motion at the same time.

The door burst open. I heard voices urgent and frightened. Someone was calling my name.

Someone else was shouting for help. I felt hands on me, trying to help me, but I couldn’t focus on what they were saying.

The pain in my chest was getting worse. It felt like my heart was being squeezed by an invisible fist.

Each breath was a struggle. The room kept spinning and dark spots were dancing at the edges of my vision.

I heard my mother’s voice. She must have been woken up. She was crying, saying my name over and over.

I wanted to tell her I was okay, but I couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t come.

Then there were more people. The palace doctor, more servants, everyone moving quickly, their faces blurred above me.

I heard someone say they had called for an ambulance. An ambulance. The word seemed strange.

Princesses didn’t ride in ambulances. But here I was, being lifted onto a stretcher, being carried out of my beautiful room, down the marble hallways I had walked my entire life.

I remember seeing the crystal chandeliers pass overhead as they carried me. I remember the concerned faces of servants lining the halls.

I remember the cool night air hitting my face as they brought me outside to the waiting ambulance.

My mother climbed in with me. I could see her face twisted with worry. She was holding my hand, squeezing it tight.

Her lips were moving in prayer. She was asking Allah to save me. The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and pain and fear.

The paramedics were working on me, putting an oxygen mask over my face, checking my vital signs, speaking in urgent tones.

I heard words like heart attack and blood pressure and unstable. I was only in my 20s.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. I was young. I was healthy. This kind of thing happened to old people, not to someone like me.

But my body was telling a different story. I could feel myself getting weaker. The pain was overwhelming.

Each breath was harder than the last. The darkness at the edges of my vision was growing, creeping inward.

We arrived at the hospital. More rushing, more urgent voices, more bright lights overhead as they wheeled me through corridors.

I was moved from the stretcher to a hospital bed. Doctors and nurses surrounded me.

There were machines beeping, hands moving over me, voices giving orders. My father arrived. I saw him standing near the doorway, his face pale.

My father never looked afraid, but he looked afraid now. My siblings came. The waiting room must have been filling up with my family.

A princess was dying. The whole household was in crisis. The doctors were doing everything they could.

I could feel them working on me. Hear them calling out medical terms I didn’t understand.

But I was slipping away. I could feel it. Life was draining out of me like water through a sie.

The pain started to fade. At first I thought that was a good sign. Maybe I was getting better.

But then I realized it wasn’t that. It was that I was leaving. I was dying.

The last thing I remember before everything went dark was the sound of the heart monitor.

That steady beep that had been tracking my heartbeat. And then the beep became one long continuous tone, a flat line.

I was dead. The moment I left my body, everything changed in ways I cannot fully describe to you.

One second I was in that hospital bed hearing the frantic voices of doctors and the crying of my mother.

The next second I was above it all looking down. I could see myself lying on that bed.

My body looked so small, so still. The doctors were working frantically, pressing on my chest, shouting orders.

One of them was preparing the defibrillator paddles. My mother was being held back by a nurse, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

My father stood frozen, his face like stone. But I could see his hands trembling at his sides.

It was the strangest sensation. I was me, but I wasn’t in my body anymore.

I was watching everything from above, near the ceiling. I felt completely calm, which was odd given the chaos below me.

There was no pain anymore, no struggle to breathe. I felt light, almost weightless. I watched them shock my body.

My chest lifted off the bed with the jolt of electricity, but nothing happened. The flat line on the monitor continued its long, unbroken tone.

They shocked me again. Still nothing. I could hear everything they were saying, even though I was no longer in my body.

One of the doctors was saying they were losing me. A nurse was recording the time.

My mother was crying out to Allah, begging him to bring me back. Part of me wanted to tell them I was okay.

I was right here. I could see them and hear them, but I couldn’t communicate with them.

They couldn’t see me or hear me. Then something began to pull me. It wasn’t a physical pulling, but I felt it nonetheless.

It was like a force. A drawing away from that hospital room, away from my body, away from everything I knew.

The hospital room began to fade. The walls became transparent, then disappeared entirely. I was moving, though I had no body to move with.

I was being taken somewhere, and I had no control over it. Darkness surrounded me.

Not the darkness of a room with the lights off. This was different. This was a darkness that felt thick, almost solid.

A darkness that seemed alive and aware, and I was falling into it. The temperature changed.

At first, it was just a subtle warmth. But as I continued to descend through this darkness, it grew hotter, then hot, then unbearably hot.

The kind of heat that makes it hard to think about anything else. I tried to understand what was happening to me.

Was this death? Was this what happened to everyone? Where was I going? The calmness I had felt when I first left my body was starting to fade, replaced by a growing sense of dread.

Then I began to hear sounds in the distance. At first, they were faint, like echoes.

But as I continued to fall, they grew louder. They were voices. Hundreds, maybe thousands of voices, and they were all screaming.

The screaming wasn’t like anything I had ever heard before. It was the sound of absolute agony, of complete despair, of suffering beyond anything that exists in the physical world.

It was the sound of people who had lost all hope. My own fear was rising now.

I wanted to stop falling. I wanted to go back. I tried to pray the prayers I had said my entire life.

The Arabic words that had always been my refuge, but they felt empty here. They echoed in my mind, but seemed to have no power, no meaning in this place.

The darkness was beginning to break. I could see a red glow in the distance, growing brighter as I approached.

The heat was becoming intense. The screaming was getting louder. And then I was no longer falling.

I was standing in hell. I know some of you watching this don’t believe in hell.

You think it’s just a metaphor or a story to scare people or something that religions made up to control others.

I used to think maybe that was true, even though I wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

But I’m telling you now, hell is real. It is a real place, and it is worse than anything you can imagine.

The landscape around me was like something from the worst nightmare, except this was no dream.

The ground beneath my feet was cracked and dry. In the distance, I could see flames, enormous walls of fire that seemed to have no source.

The air itself seemed to burn. The smell was overwhelming. A mixture of sulfur and smoke and something else, something like decay and death.

But the worst part wasn’t the physical environment. It was the spiritual oppression, the absolute absence of anything good.

No hope, no peace, no love, no light, just endless crushing darkness and despair. The screaming was coming from everywhere.

I could see figures in the distance, shadows moving in torment. And then as my eyes adjusted to this horrible place, I began to see them more clearly.

They were people, souls of people who had died. And they were in agony. I stood there unable to move, unable to process what I was seeing.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. I was a good person. I had prayed.

I had fasted. I had tried to follow the rules. Why was I here? Then I heard a voice calling my name.

A voice I recognized. I turned and saw a man I knew. He had been an imam at one of the mosques our family attended.

A respected teacher. A man who had taught me about Islam when I was younger.

A man I had looked up to and trusted. But the man I saw now was not the dignified, confident teacher I remembered.

He looked broken, destroyed. His face was twisted in anguish. He recognized me immediately. The shock on his face matched my own.

And then he spoke words that I will never forget. He told me to go back.

He told me to tell everyone that they were wrong, that he was wrong. I couldn’t speak.

I could only stare at him in horror and confusion. He wasn’t the only one.

As I stood there, I began to recognize other faces. Another religious teacher I had known.

A respected scholar who had written books about Islam. An elderly relative who had died when I was a teenager.

A man who had been known for his piety and devotion. They were all here in this place of torment.

I started walking. Though I don’t remember deciding to do so, it was like something was guiding me, making me see, making me understand.

Everywhere I looked, there were people who had been religious, people who had prayed, people who had done good deeds, people who by all outward appearances should have been in paradise.

But they were here. I saw people I had never met but somehow knew who they were.

Religious leaders from history. People who had influenced millions. People who had built mosques and started schools and devoted their entire lives to Islamic teaching.

All here all suffering. All in agony. The questions were screaming in my mind. How could this be?

These were good people. These were devoted Muslims. These were the ones who were supposed to make it.

If they were here, what hope did anyone have? I came upon a section where I saw people I had known personally.

Not just the imam and the scholar, but others. Family members who had died, friends who had passed away, people I had mourned, people whose funerals I had attended, where everyone spoke of how surely they were in paradise now.

But they weren’t in paradise. They were here. One of them was my uncle. He had died when I was 15.

He had been a religious man, strict in his observance. He had prayed five times a day every day of his adult life.

He had gone on Hajj multiple times. He had given to charity. He had memorized large portions of the Quran.

When he saw me, his face showed such sorrow. Not just for himself, but for me.

Because he knew why I was there. He knew I was seeing this for a reason.

I wanted to ask him why. Why was he here? What had he done wrong?

He had been so devout, so committed. The answer came not in words exactly, but in understanding that flooded my mind.

It wasn’t about what he had done. It was about what he had trusted in.

He had trusted in his works, in his prayers, in his good deeds, in his religious observance.

He had tried to earn his way to paradise, but it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

I saw others who had made the same mistake. They had all been trying to earn salvation through their efforts, through being good enough, through doing enough.

But none of it was enough. The weight of what I was seeing was crushing me.

If all these religious people, all these devoted Muslims, all these good people were here, then what chance did I have?

I was no better than them. In fact, I was probably worse. I had all the privileges they never had.

But inside, I had been empty. I had gone through the motions without real devotion.

I realized with horrible clarity that I deserve to be here, that this was my destination, too.

That I had been heading here my entire life without knowing it. The despair that hit me in that moment was absolute.

It was the despair of someone who has just realized they are lost forever. That there is no way out, no second chance, no hope.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.

I wanted to wake up to discover this was just a terrible dream, but it wasn’t a dream.

It was more real than anything I had ever experienced. The heat was becoming unbearable.

The screaming was filling my ears. The darkness was pressing in on me from all sides.

And I understood that this was forever. This was eternity. This was what awaited me.

I fell to my knees, though I’m not sure how since I had no physical body.

I cried out in my mind to anyone who might hear, to anything that might save me.

I begged Allah to help me, but the words felt hollow. I begged for mercy.

I begged for another chance. I begged to go back, to do better, to try harder.

But I knew it was too late. I was dead. My life was over. My chance was gone.

The people around me, the other souls in this place, they looked at me with such pity.

They knew what I was feeling because they had felt it too when they first arrived.

That moment of realization, that crushing weight of understanding that you are lost forever. I don’t know how long I was there.

Time seemed to have no meaning in that place. It could have been minutes or hours or days.

All I knew was the torment, the heat, the screaming, the absolute absence of hope.

I was broken, completely and utterly broken. And then in the midst of that absolute darkness, I saw something impossible.

Light. It was just a pinpoint at first, so small I thought I was imagining it.

But it grew brighter and brighter. A pure white light that was cutting through the darkness like a knife.

The light was moving toward me. And as it got closer, I felt something I hadn’t felt since arriving in this horrible place.

Hope. The light was warm, but not the burning heat of hell. It was the warmth of comfort, of safety, of love.

And then in the light, I saw a figure, a man, walking toward me through the flames and darkness, completely untouched by them.

Even before I could see his face clearly, I somehow knew who he was. Every fiber of my being recognized him, even though I had been taught my whole life not to believe in him.

It was Jesus. I cannot adequately describe the moment when Jesus stood before me. Words fail.

Language is insufficient. But I must try because this is why I’m telling you my story.

This is the moment everything changed. The light that surrounded him was unlike anything that exists in the natural world.

It wasn’t just bright. It was alive. It was pure. It was holy. And somehow in that light, I could see clearly for the first time in my life.

Not just with my eyes, but with something deeper. I could see truth. As he came closer, I could see his face.

I had seen pictures of Jesus before, paintings and images that Christians had, but those were nothing like the reality of him.

His eyes held depths I couldn’t begin to fathom. Compassion and strength, justice and mercy, holiness and love all at once.

And then I saw his hands. The wounds were there, the scars from nails that had been driven through his flesh.

I stared at those scars and suddenly I understood something that made me fall on my face before him.

Those wounds were for me. I was Muslim. I had rejected him my entire life.

I had been taught that he was just a prophet, not the son of God.

That the crucifixion never happened. That the whole story of his death and resurrection was a lie or a misunderstanding.

But here he was and his wounds were real. Terror and love hit me at the same time.

Terror because I was in the presence of absolute holiness and I was absolutely unholy.

Love because even though I had rejected him, even though I had denied who he was, he had come for me.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even think coherently. All I could do was weep. He knelt down beside me.

The son of God, the creator of the universe, knelt in the dirt of hell to be close to me.

And when he spoke, his voice was gentle, kind, full of tenderness I had never known.

He knew my name. He knew everything about me. Every thought I’d ever had, every sin I’d ever committed, every time I’d rejected him, everything.

And yet there was no condemnation in his voice. He told me that he had brought me here not to stay, but to see, to understand, to return with a message.

I finally found my voice, though it was shaking. I told him I didn’t understand.

I was Muslim. I had followed Islam my whole life. Why was I here? Why were all these religious people here?

The Imam who taught me, the scholars, the devout worshippers. If they couldn’t make it to paradise, who could?

His answer broke through everything I had ever been taught. He explained that heaven is not earned by good works.

That no amount of prayer, no amount of fasting, no amount of religious devotion can pay for sin.

That the price of sin is death. And only his death could pay that price.

He told me that he loves Muslim people, that he died for them, too. That he died for all people.

That God so loved the world, he gave his only son, so that whoever believes in him would not perish but have eternal life.

I struggled to accept what I was hearing. My whole life I had been taught something different.

That Jesus was just a prophet. That salvation came through following the five pillars of Islam.

That if your good deeds outweighed your bad deeds, you would make it to paradise.

But here I was in hell, seeing the truth with my own eyes, seeing that the religious path I had followed my entire life led here to this place of torment, to eternal separation from God.

He read my thoughts, my doubts, my confusion. And with infinite patience, he began to help me understand.

He explained that every human being has sinned. That sin separates us from a holy God.

That we cannot make ourselves clean enough, good enough, righteous enough to enter God’s presence on our own.

That’s why he came. That’s why he died. That’s why he rose again. To bridge the gap that we could never bridge ourselves.

He spoke about his love for my people, for Muslims around the world. How it breaks his heart that they are trying so hard to earn something he offers freely.

That they are following a path that leads to destruction, thinking it leads to paradise.

I asked him about the people I had seen here, the respected imam, the scholars, the devoted worshippers.

Why were they here if they had tried so hard? His answer was both simple and profound.

They had tried to come to God their own way, not his way. They had rejected the payment he made for their sins, trying instead to pay for it themselves.

But the price was too high. They could never pay enough. Tears were streaming down my face.

Not the tears of despair I had cried before, but tears of recognition, tears of understanding, because I knew that I had been on the same path.

That if I had died and stayed dead, this would have been my eternity, too.

Then Jesus did something I will never forget. He showed me his hands again, those scarred hands.

And he told me that these wounds were for me, that he had known me before I was born, that he had watched over me my entire life.

That even when I was praying to Allah, he was there waiting for me to call on his name.

He told me that this moment, this encounter was not an accident. That he had allowed me to die and see these things for a purpose.

That he was sending me back with a message. The weight of what he was saying began to sink in.

He was giving me another chance. He was sending me back to my body, back to my life, but not to continue as I was.

He was calling me to tell others what I had seen, to warn them, to share the truth.

Fear rose up in me immediately. I told him I couldn’t do that, that my family would never accept it, that they would reject me, that the whole Muslim community would turn against me, that I could be killed for leaving Islam and following him.

He looked at me with such compassion. He didn’t dismiss my fears. He knew they were real.

He knew exactly what it would cost me. But he told me that he would be with me, that he would never leave me or forsake me, that the temporary suffering of this world was nothing compared to the glory that awaited those who believe in him.

He asked me if I believed him, if I believe that he is who he says he is, the son of God, the savior of the world, the only way to the father.

Everything in me wanted to say yes. But everything in me was also terrified. Saying yes meant leaving behind everything I knew, everything I had been taught.

My entire identity, my family, my culture, my religion. But I had seen hell. I had seen where the path I was on was leading.

And I had seen him. How could I deny what I had seen with my own eyes?

With a trembling heart, I said, “Yes. Yes, I believed him. Yes, he is the son of God.

Yes, he is the only way to salvation.” The moment those words left my lips, something happened inside me.

It was like a light turned on in a room that had been dark my entire life.

Peace flooded through me. Real peace. Not the absence of trouble, but a deep, unshakable peace that came from knowing I was right with God, that my sins were forgiven, that I was his child.

Jesus smiled at me, and in that smile, I saw joy. He was happy that I had come to him, that I had chosen him, that I was now his.

He told me there was something else he needed to show me. Something to help me be strong for what was ahead.

Something to remind me that the suffering to come was temporary, but the reward was eternal.

The darkness of hell began to fade. The heat and the screaming disappeared. And suddenly we were somewhere completely different.

We were in heaven. The beauty of it was overwhelming. I have no words to describe it adequately.

Imagine the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen on earth and it doesn’t come close.

The colors were more vivid. The light was more pure. The air itself seemed to sing with a joy.

There were people there, so many people from every nation, every tribe, every language, and they were all worshiping.

But it wasn’t the mechanical ritualistic worship I was used to. This was worship that came from pure joy, from pure love, from hearts that were completely free and completely whole.

Jesus showed me people who had once been Muslim. People who had left Islam and followed him.

People who had paid a price on earth but were now experiencing eternal joy. They were radiant with happiness, with peace, with love.

I saw mansions prepared for believers. I saw the tree of life. I saw the river of life clear as crystal.

I saw glory that made me weep with joy instead of sorrow. And Jesus told me that this was waiting for everyone who believes in him.

Not because they earned it, not because they were good enough, but because he paid the price, because he offered it freely to anyone who would accept it.

He told me that what I was seeing was just a tiny glimpse. That the fullness of heaven was beyond what any human mind could comprehend.

That it was worth any sacrifice, any suffering, any cost. Then he told me it was time.

Time to go back. Time to return to my body. Time to begin the mission he was giving me.

Fresh fear gripped me. I didn’t want to leave him. I didn’t want to go back to the world, to the pain, to the struggle.

I wanted to stay here in his presence in this place of perfect peace. But he reminded me that there were people who needed to hear this message.

Muslims who were on the path to hell thinking it led to paradise. People in my family, in my community, around the world.

They needed to know the truth. They needed to know him. He told me to be bold, to not be afraid of what people would say or do, to remember what I had seen.

To remember that he was with me always. To remember that the suffering of this world was temporary, but eternity was forever.

He told me that many would reject the message, that some would hate me for it, that I would lose much, but that I would also see fruit, that there would be Muslims who would come to him through my testimony, that their salvation would make it all worthwhile.

I told him I would do it, that I would tell my story, that I would proclaim his name no matter what it cost me.

He touched my forehead with his scarred hand. And the last thing I heard before everything changed was his voice speaking words I cling to every day.

He told me he loved me, that I was his, that nothing could separate me from his love, that he would give me the strength I needed, that he had plans for me, plans to give me hope and a future.

And then the light grew so bright I couldn’t see anything else. I felt myself being pulled again, but this time upward instead of downward, away from heaven, back toward earth, back toward my body, back toward life.

The last thing I saw was Jesus watching me go, his hand raised in blessing, his eyes full of love.

And then everything went dark again. The first thing I felt was pain. My chest was on fire.

My whole body achd. I couldn’t breathe properly. And then suddenly I gasped, pulling air into my lungs in a desperate choking breath.

The sound of machines erupted around me, beeping, alarms, voices shouting. I felt hands on me, holding me down as my body convulsed.

I couldn’t see clearly at first. Everything was blurred, but I could hear everything. The doctors expressing shock, someone calling out medical terms I didn’t understand.

The sound of my mother crying. Slowly, painfully, my vision cleared. I was back in the hospital room, back in my body.

The fluorescent lights above me were too bright. The IV in my arm hurt. My chest hurt from where they had been doing compressions and using the defibrillator.

But I was alive. The doctors were standing around my bed staring at me like they were seeing a ghost.

One of them was checking the monitors, shaking his head in disbelief. They were calling it a miracle.

They said I had been gone for 7 minutes. No heartbeat, no brain activity. By all medical standards, I should have been brain dead, even if they had managed to revive me.

But here I was, awake, alert, and looking at them with clear eyes. My mother rushed to my bedside, grabbing my hand, touching my face, crying and thanking Allah over and over.

My father stood behind her, his face still pale, but relief evident in his eyes.

I should have been weak, confused, disoriented. That’s what the doctors expected. But all I felt was an overwhelming urgency.

I had to tell them. I had to tell them what I had seen. I couldn’t wait.

The words came tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them. I told them I had seen Jesus, that he had shown me hell, that I had seen people there, religious people suffering, that he had told me to come back and warn everyone.

The relief on my mother’s face turned to horror. My father’s expression hardened. The doctors exchanged concerned glances.

My mother squeezed my hand tighter, telling me I was confused, that I had been through trauma, that my brain was just processing the near-death experience, that I needed to rest and I would feel better soon.

But I couldn’t rest. I couldn’t stay quiet. I kept talking, telling them about what I had seen, about the Imam who had told me to go back and warn people, about the souls in torment, about Jesus and his wounds and his love.

My father finally spoke, his voice stern. He told me to stop. That I was bringing shame on the family.

That I was speaking nonsense. That the medication was making me say crazy things. But it wasn’t the medication.

It was the truth burning inside me. The truth that I had died and met Jesus Christ.

The truth that had to be told. A nurse gave me something to help me sleep.

My family was ushered out of the room. The doctors told them I needed rest, that sometimes near-death experiences could cause temporary confusion, that I would likely be more rational after I had time to recover.

But when I woke up the next morning, nothing had changed. If anything, the memories were clearer, more vivid, more real than anything in the physical world around me.

I was moved to a private room. My family came to visit, but the atmosphere was tense.

They didn’t want to talk about what I had said. They changed the subject whenever I brought it up.

They kept telling me I needed to focus on recovering, on getting my strength back, but I couldn’t focus on anything else.

How could I? I had seen hell. I had seen heaven. I had met the Savior.

How could I just go back to normal life and pretend none of it happened?

On the third day, the family imam came to visit me. My father had called him, hoping he could help straighten out my thinking.

He sat by my bedside with his serious face and his long beard, and he began to quote the Quran at me.

He told me that what I had experienced was a trick from Shayan, from Satan, that the devil was trying to lead me astray.

But something inside me had changed. The fear I had always felt around religious authorities was gone.

I looked at him and I saw what I had seen in hell. I saw a man who was sincere, but sincerely wrong.

A man who was leading people down a path that ended in destruction. I told him about what I had seen.

I told him about the Imam in hell. I described the man in detail and I saw recognition flash in his eyes.

He had known that Imam. They had studied together. His face grew red with anger.

He told me I was speaking blasphemy, that I had dishonored Islam in my family, that I needed to repent and return to the straight path before it was too late.

But I had seen the straight path, and it wasn’t what he thought it was.

The straight path was Jesus. He is the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the father except through him.

The Imam left angry. I heard him talking to my father in the hallway, his voice raised.

He was telling my father that something needed to be done about me. That I couldn’t be allowed to spread such poison.

That night, alone in my hospital room, I prayed for the first time to Jesus.

Really prayed. Not recited words I had memorized, not performed rituals, but talked to him like he was there with me.

Because he was. I could feel his presence. I cried as I prayed. I told him I was scared.

That I didn’t know what to do. That my family was turning against me. That I didn’t know if I was strong enough to do what he had asked me to do.

And in the quiet of that hospital room, I felt his peace. The same peace I had felt when I stood before him in that place between hell and heaven.

He reminded me that he was with me, that he would never leave me, that I could do all things through him who gave me strength.

I spent the rest of my time in the hospital secretly searching on my phone.

I looked up information about Jesus, about Christianity, about the Bible. I found stories of other Muslims who had encountered Jesus.

I wasn’t alone. There were others who had walked this path before me. I found testimonies online, videos of former Muslims sharing their stories.

Their experiences were different from mine, but the core was the same. They had found Jesus.

They had found the truth and they had paid a price for it. I discovered what it meant to be born again, to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior, to turn from sin and trust in his finished work on the cross.

And there in that hospital room, clicking through websites on my phone at 3:00 in the morning, I made my decision.

I prayed the prayer of salvation. I told Jesus that I believed he was the son of God, that he died for my sins and rose again, that I was trusting in him alone for salvation, not in my works or my religion.

I asked him to save me, to make me his child, and he did. I felt it happen.

Something inside me shifted, changed, was made new. The old things passed away. All things became new.

I was born again. The tears that flowed down my face that night were tears of joy.

Pure unfiltered joy. I had found what I had been searching for my entire life without knowing I was searching.

I had found real peace, real hope, real love. But with that joy came the sobering realization of what lay ahead.

When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I returned to the palace. But it didn’t feel like home anymore.

The beautiful rooms felt like a prison. The luxury felt meaningless. I had seen eternal things and earthly things had lost their shine.

My family was cold toward me. They watched me carefully, waiting to see if I would continue speaking about my experience.

They had decided among themselves that if I just stopped talking about it, they could pretend it never happened.

They could tell people I had been confused, that the neardeath experience had temporarily affected me, but that I was better now.

But I wasn’t going to stay quiet. I started speaking about Jesus to anyone who would listen.

I told the servants what I had seen. I told my siblings. I tried to tell my parents, but they refused to hear it.

The pressure began to build. My mother would cry and beg me to stop. My father would rage at me, telling me I was destroying the family’s honor.

My siblings avoided me. The servants whispered about me. They brought religious scholars to talk to me.

Men who were supposed to be wise, who were supposed to be able to answer any question, to defend Islam against any challenge.

But I had seen the truth. Their arguments fell flat. Their explanations didn’t hold up against what I had witnessed.

One night, there was a family meeting. I wasn’t invited, but I could hear them talking in my father’s study.

They were discussing what to do about me. Some suggested I should be sent away, perhaps to a psychiatric hospital.

Others said I should be married quickly to a very religious man who could bring me back to Islam.

My father said he was considering taking away my phone, restricting my movements, keeping me under close watch until I came to my senses.

I realized then that I couldn’t stay. If I stayed, they would find a way to silence me.

They would lock me away or marry me off or break me down until I renounced what I had seen.

But Jesus had told me to tell people, to share the truth, to warn others.

I couldn’t do that imprisoned in a palace, even a beautiful one. I began to plan my escape.

It sounds dramatic, a princess planning to run away from the palace. But that’s what it was.

I couldn’t just walk out the front door. I was watched, guarded. My movements were monitored.

I reached out online to the underground Christian community. I had discovered. Yes, there are Christians in Kuwait.

Secret believers who meet in homes, who worship in whispers, who risk everything to follow Jesus.

They had networks to help people like me. People who had left Islam and needed help getting to safety.

The night I left, I packed only one small bag. I looked around my enormous bedroom one last time, at the closets full of expensive clothes, at the jewelry I was leaving behind.

At the luxury and comfort I had known my entire life, I thought about what Jesus had said that whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for his sake will find it.

What profit is it if someone gains the whole world but loses their soul? I was giving up the world, but I was gaining eternity.

I slipped out of my room late at night. The palace was quiet. I made my way through the dark corridors, past the sleeping servants quarters, toward a side entrance that I knew was less guarded.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone in the palace could hear it.

Every shadow made me jump. Every sound made me freeze. But I made it to the door.

And when I stepped out into the cool night air, I felt the strangest mixture of grief and freedom.

A car was waiting for me. Driven by someone from the underground church. I got in without looking back.

If I had looked back at the palace at the only home I had ever known, I might have lost my courage.

As we drove away, I pulled out my phone. I sent one final message to my mother.

I told her I loved her. I told her I was sorry for the pain I was causing.

I told her that I had found the truth and I couldn’t deny it. I told her that I was praying she would find it too.

That I was praying for the whole family, that I would always love them, but I had to follow Jesus.

Then I turned off my phone. I knew they would try to track it, try to find me, try to bring me back.

I watched the city lights fade behind us as we drove into the darkness. I was leaving behind everything.

My name, my title, my family, my country, my old life. But I was following him and he was all I needed.

The tears came then. Great heaving sobs. The kind of crying that comes from deep in your soul.

I was grieving. Grieving the loss of my family. Grieving the loss of the life I had known, grieving the fact that it had come to this.

But underneath the grief was something else, something I had never felt before. True freedom.

For the first time in my life, I was free. Free to follow the truth.

Free to worship Jesus openly. Free to be who he had created me to be.

I was shika fajger. But I was also a new creation in Christ. The old had passed away, the new had come.

And though the road ahead would be difficult, though the cost would be high, I knew I had made the right choice because I had seen hell.

I had seen heaven. I had met Jesus, and nothing would ever be the same again.

The car drove through the night for hours. I dozed occasionally, but never truly slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s face. I heard her crying.

I imagined my father’s rage when they discovered I was gone. By morning, we arrived at a safe house in a neighboring country.

I won’t tell you which country. There are still people looking for me, and I need to protect those who are helping me.

The safe house was nothing like the palace. It was a small apartment in an ordinary building.

The furniture was simple. The bathroom was tiny. There was no marble, no crystal, no gold, but there was peace.

The people who welcomed me were Christians. Some of them were former Muslims like me.

Others had been Christian their whole lives. But all of them understood what it meant to risk everything for Jesus.

They fed me. They prayed with me. They let me cry and talk and process what I had just done.

One woman, a former Muslim from Egypt, held my hand as I wept. She told me she understood.

She had left her family, too. She had walked the same painful path. She told me it would get harder before it got easier, but that Jesus would be faithful, that he would never abandon me.

Over the next few days, more of my story came out in the news. Not the full story, but enough.

A Kuwaiti princess had disappeared. The family was searching for her. There were rumors she had been radicalized, that she had been kidnapped, that she had run away.

I saw the statements my family released. They said I was confused, that I had been traumatized by my neardeath experience, that I needed medical help.

They appealed for anyone who knew where I was to contact them immediately. Reading those statements broke my heart, not because they were lying, though they were, but because I could read between the lines.

I could see their shame, their fear, their pain, and I had caused it. But I had to keep reminding myself why I had left.

I had a message to deliver, a truth to tell. People needed to hear about Jesus, about hell, about heaven, about salvation.

The underground church helped me begin to heal. They taught me about the Bible. They explained Christian theology.

They answered the thousands of questions I had. They helped me understand what it meant to follow Jesus, not just as an intellectual belief, but as a daily walk.

And they baptized me. It was done in secret in the middle of the night in someone’s bathtub.

It wasn’t grand or ceremonial. There was no church building, no pastor in robes, no audience.

Just a few believers gathered in a bathroom witnessing my public declaration of faith in Jesus.

But it was the most beautiful moment of my life. As I went under the water, I thought about the old shika fajair dying.

The one who had tried to earn salvation through works. The one who had been empty and lost.

And as I came up out of the water, I felt the truth of it.

I was a new creation. The old had passed away. The new had come. We worshiped together that night, singing softly so the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

But the joy in that little bathroom was greater than any celebration I had ever attended in the palace.

After a few weeks, it became clear I couldn’t stay where I was. The search for me was intensifying.

There were reports that my family had hired people to find me, that they were pressuring governments, using their influence and connections.

So, I moved again and then again, I became someone who lived out of a single bag, never staying in one place too long, always looking over my shoulder.

But in the midst of that instability, I found my purpose. I started sharing my testimony online.

At first, I did it anonymously. I recorded my story without showing my face, without using my real name.

I told people what I had seen about hell, about Jesus, about heaven, about the truth.

The response was overwhelming. Thousands of people watched, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands.

Messages poured in from Muslims all over the world. Some were angry, calling me a liar and a traitor.

But others were different. Some said they had been searching for truth and my story had opened their eyes.

Others said they had had similar experiences, dreams of Jesus, visions, moments where they questioned Islam but were afraid to say it out loud.

Still others said they were secret believers following Jesus in Muslim countries living double lives out of fear.

I realized I wasn’t alone. There was a whole movement of Muslims coming to Christ.

Some through dreams and visions, others through reading the Bible, others through the testimony of bold believers.

And my story was becoming part of that. I started receiving specific messages from people in Kuwait, people who knew me.

Some were curious, wanting to know if the rumors were true. Others were concerned for my safety.

A few even said they believed me, that they wanted to know more about Jesus.

I began to disciple new believers online. Secret video calls in the middle of the night, encrypted messages, teaching them about Jesus, helping them understand the Bible, praying with them, walking them through their own journeys of leaving Islam and following Christ.

And I watched as the fruit multiplied. People I led to Christ were leading others to Christ.

A network was forming. The seeds that Jesus had planted through my neardeath experience were growing into a harvest, but the cost remained high.

I received death threats regularly, detailed messages describing what would happen to me if I was found.

Some came from strangers, others came from people I used to know. The religion I had left behind didn’t take kindly to those who abandoned it.

And then there were the messages from my family. My younger sister managed to find a way to contact me.

She begged me to come home. She said my mother was sick with grief, that my father had aged years in months, that the family was falling apart.

She said they would forgive me if I just came back and stopped this foolishness.

Reading her message, I cried for hours. I wanted to go home. I wanted to hug my mother.

I wanted to make everything right, but I couldn’t deny Jesus. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen what I saw.

I couldn’t go back to Islam knowing it was a lie. I wrote my sister back.

I told her I loved her. I told her I was sorry for the pain.

But I also told her why I couldn’t come back. I told her about Jesus, about what he had done for me, about what he wanted to do for her.

She never responded. My message was probably intercepted or perhaps she chose not to reply.

Either way, the silence hurt. As time went on, I had to accept a painful reality.

I might never see my family again in this life. They had made their choice.

I had made mine. And unless they came to Jesus, our paths would not cross again until eternity.

And then it would be too late. That grief never fully goes away. Even now, years later, I think about them every day.

I pray for them every day. I pray that somehow my testimony will reach them.

That they will see the truth before it’s too late. Eventually, I was able to relocate to a country where I had more freedom, where I could practice Christianity openly without fear of immediate death, where I could start to build something resembling a normal life.

But normal is relative. I live in a modest apartment now, nothing like the palace.

I work a simple job to support myself. I dress simply. I live simply by the world’s standards, especially the standards of the world I came from.

I have nothing. But I have everything. I have Jesus. I have salvation. I have peace.

I have purpose. I have a family of believers who love me and support me.

I have the joy of seeing Muslims come to faith. I have the hope of eternity in heaven.

Every Sunday, I gather with other believers to worship. Some of them are former Muslims like me.

Others come from different backgrounds. But we are all one in Christ. And when we worship together, when we sing praises to Jesus, I am reminded of what I saw in heaven.

That one day we will worship him face to face. My ministry has grown. I now speak at churches and conferences, telling my story to encourage believers and reach the lost.

I run an online ministry specifically for Muslims who are seeking truth. I’ve written my testimony in multiple languages so it can reach more people.

And I’ve seen the fruit. I’ve baptized former Muslims who came to Christ through my testimony.

I’ve received messages from people in countries I’ve never been to telling me that my story changed their life.

I’ve watched as God has taken the most painful experience of my life and used it for his glory.

But I want to be honest with you, it’s not always easy. There are days when I miss my family so much it physically hurts.

There are days when I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of being careful, tired of living in partial hiding.

There are days when I wonder what my life would have been like if I had never died that night.

If I had never seen hell. If I had never met Jesus. Would I have lived a comfortable life in the palace?

Would I have married some wealthy man and had children and grown old in luxury and comfort?

Maybe. But I also would have died and gone to hell. And when I think about it that way, the choice becomes clear.

I would rather have this difficult life and eternity in heaven than an easy life and eternity in hell.

Jesus promised that following him would cost something. He said we would have to take up our cross daily.

He said the world would hate us because it hated him first. He never promised ease or comfort or acceptance.

But he did promise that he would be with us always, that he would never leave us or forsake us, that his grace would be sufficient, that his power would be made perfect in our weakness.

And I have found every one of those promises to be true. There are moments of incredible joy in this life I now live.

Moments when I’m praying with a Muslim who just accepted Jesus as their savior and I see the light come on in their eyes the same way it came on in mine.

Moments when I’m worshiping Jesus with other believers and I feel his presence so strongly that I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.

Moments when I’m reading the Bible and the words jump off the page and speak directly to my situation.

These moments make everything worthwhile. I often think about the people I saw in hell, the imam who taught me, the scholars, my uncle, the countless others who died thinking they were on the right path.

I wonder if anyone tried to tell them about Jesus. I wonder if they heard the gospel and rejected it.

I wonder if they had a chance. And then I think about the people who are alive right now.

Muslims all over the world. Sincere people trying to earn their way to paradise. People like I was.

People who are headed for the same eternity I saw. That’s why I can’t be silent.

That’s why I risk everything to tell this story. Because people need to know. They need to know that Jesus is real.

That he loves them. That he died for them. That salvation is a free gift, not something to be earned.

They need to know that hell is real, that it’s not just a metaphor or a scare tactic, that it’s an actual place where actual people spend eternity, and that it’s populated not just by bad people, but by religious people who trusted in their works instead of in Jesus.

They need to know that heaven is real. That it’s more glorious than anything we can imagine.

That it’s waiting for everyone who believes in Jesus. That it’s worth any sacrifice, any suffering, any cost.

If you’re watching this right now and you’re Muslim, I want you to know something.

I understand where you are. I was there. I know what it’s like to be devoted to Islam.

I know what it’s like to pray five times a day and fast during Ramadan and try so hard to be good enough.

I also know what it’s like to feel empty inside despite all the religious observance.

To wonder if your good deeds will really be enough, to fear what happens after death.

I’m here to tell you that there is an answer to that emptiness. His name is Jesus.

He’s not just a prophet. He’s the son of God. He’s the savior of the world and he loves you more than you can possibly imagine.

I know what it costs to follow him. I know you might lose your family, your friends, your community, your reputation, maybe even your life.

I’m not going to lie to you and tell you it’s easy. It’s not. But I’m also going to tell you that he is worth it.

That knowing him, truly knowing him, is better than anything this world has to offer.

That the peace he gives is real, that the joy he gives is unshakable, that the hope he gives is certain.

If you’ve been having dreams about Jesus, pay attention. That’s him calling you. If you’ve been questioning Islam, that’s the Holy Spirit working in your heart.

If you’re watching this video right now, that’s not an accident. God is pursuing you.

All you have to do is respond. Admit that you’re a sinner. Believe that Jesus is the son of God who died for your sins and rose again.

Confess him as your Lord and Savior. Trust in him alone for salvation, not in your works or your religion.

It’s that simple. And yet, it changes everything. If you’re a Christian watching this, I want to encourage you.

Don’t give up on Muslims. Pray for them. Share the gospel with them. Love them.

Many of them are sincere seekers who just haven’t heard the truth yet. And if you’re someone who doesn’t know what to believe, I want you to consider what I’ve told you.

I’m not asking you to just take my word for it. Seek Jesus for yourself.

Read the Bible. Pray and ask God to reveal the truth to you. He will answer that prayer.

As I close this testimony, I want to tell you where I am today. I’m still living in exile from my home country.

I still look over my shoulder. I still miss my family every single day. The cost of following Jesus has not decreased.

But neither has my joy. Neither has my peace. Neither has my certainty that I made the right choice.

I have a picture of my family that I keep in my apartment. It’s from before everything happened.

When we were all together and happy. Sometimes I look at that picture and cry.

I think about my mother’s laugh, my father’s rare smiles, my siblings jokes, the life we shared.

And I pray I pray that one day they will know Jesus, too. That they will understand why I did what I did.

That we will be reunited not in the palace in Kuwait, but in the kingdom of heaven.

I pray that for all of you, too. That whether you’re Muslim, Christian, or something else, you will find Jesus.

That you will experience the love and grace and mercy that he offers. That you will spend eternity with him in paradise.

Because that’s what this is all about. Not religion, not rules, not rituals, but relationship.

A personal intimate relationship with the God who created you, who loves you, who died for you.

I found that relationship on the other side of death. But you don’t have to die to find it.

You can find it right now. Wherever you are, whatever your background, Jesus is calling.

He’s been calling you your whole life. The question is, will you answer? I did and it cost me everything but I gained infinitely more than I lost.

My name is Shika Fajer. I died and met Jesus. He showed me hell so I could warn others.

He showed me heaven so I could have hope. He sent me back so I could tell you the truth.

The truth is this. Jesus Christ is the son of God. He is the only way to the father.

He is the only name under heaven by which we must be saved. He loves you.

He died for you. He rose for you. And he’s waiting for you. What will you do with that truth?

As for me, I will spend the rest of my life proclaiming it. No matter the cost, no matter the consequences, because I have seen eternity, and I know what’s at stake.

I pray that my story has touched your heart, that it has opened your eyes, that it has drawn you closer to Jesus.

He is real. Heaven is real. Hell is real. And the choice you make about him determines where you spend eternity.

Choose wisely. Choose Jesus. And if you do, I look forward to meeting you one day in heaven where there will be no more tears, no more pain, no more separation, where we will worship him together for all eternity.

Until then, may God bless you and keep you. May he make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you.

May he turn his face toward you and give you peace in Jesus’ name. Amen.