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My name is Fad Al-Soud.

I am 45 years old.

And two months ago, a video of me declaring, “Jesus is the source of my wealth went viral worldwide.

>> Jesus is the one who transformed my life.

He is my Lord and Savior and I cannot deny what he has done for me.

>> I never thought I would be the Saudi businessman who would risk everything for Jesus Christ.

If someone had told me three years ago that I would publicly declare Jesus as the source of my wealth on international television, I would have called them insane.

Yet here I am living as an open Christian in Saudi Arabia, facing consequences I never imagined possible.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever become someone you never imagined you could be? My story begins in the heart of Riyad where I was born into the influential al-Sawwood family in 1980.

Our family name carried weight throughout the kingdom, opening doors that remained firmly shut for most people.

My childhood was structured around strict Islamic principles that my father enforced with unwavering dedication.

Every morning began with fagger prayers before dawn followed by Quran recitation that echoed through our marble floored mansion.

My father would stand behind me as I recited verses in Arabic, correcting my pronunciation and ensuring I understood that our family’s honor depended on maintaining perfect Islamic devotion.

the religious foundation of my upbringing wasn’t merely ceremonial.

It was the bedrock upon which every aspect of our lives was built.

My mother would wake me for prayers even when I was sick, explaining that Allah’s demands superseded physical comfort.

Five times daily, our household would pause as the call to prayer resonated from the nearby mosque.

Business meetings stopped, phone calls ended, and family conversations ceased as we oriented ourselves toward Mecca.

This wasn’t burdensome to me as a child because it was simply reality.

I knew nothing else.

My Islamic education ran parallel to my western business training.

While attending the finest private schools in Riyad, I also spent afternoons with our religious teacher, memorizing Quranic verses, and learning Islamic law.

My uncle, who had built a fortune in oil investments, would take me to his office during school holidays.

He taught me that success in business required not only intelligence and connections but also Allah’s blessing.

Every mega deal began with prayers for divine favor and every profit was attributed to Allah’s generosity.

By 8:25 I launched my first major business venture combining technology investments with traditional oil interests.

The timing was perfect.

Saudi Arabia was modernizing rapidly and I possessed the family connections necessary to secure government contracts worth millions of real.

My father introduced me to government officials who appreciated our family’s religious devotion and political loyalty.

These relationships became the foundation of my business empire.

The wealth accumulated faster than I had ever imagined possible.

Strategic partnerships with international investors multiplied my initial investments exponentially.

Within 5 years, I owned multiple properties across Riyad, a penthouse in London and a beachfront mansion in Dubai.

My garage housed a collection of luxury cars that most people only saw in magazines.

The private get became a necessity rather than a luxury as my business interests expanded across continents.

But wealth alone wasn’t enough to satisfy my father’s expectations.

He demanded that I maintain our family’s reputation as devout Muslims who understood that success came from Allah alone.

I appeared regularly at our family’s mosque sitting in the front row during Friday prayers where everyone could see the also family’s continued devotion.

Religious ceremonies became networking opportunities where I met other wealthy Muslim families.

creating business partnerships that further expanded my influence.

My charitable giving followed Islamic principles precisely.

I calculated my zakat meticulously ensuring that 2.

5% of my wealth supported approve Islamic causes.

During Ramadan, I hosted elaborate iftar dinners for business associates and religious leaders, demonstrating both my generosity and my orthodox faith.

These events were photographed for social media, showing the world that material success and Islamic devotion could coexist beautifully.

The public image I cultivated was flawless.

Journalists interviewed me about the relationship between faith and business success.

I spoke eloquently about how Allah had blessed my investments and guided my decisions.

University students attended my lectures about Islamic business ethics.

Young entrepreneurs sought my mentorship wanting to understand how I had achieved such remarkable success while maintaining religious integrity.

My married to my wife who came from another prominent Saudi family seemed to complete the perfect picture.

Our wedding was a celebration of two influential Muslim families uniting their resources and reputations.

She was intelligent, beautiful, and deeply committed to Islamic principles.

Together, we represented everything the kingdom valued.

Traditional faith combined with modern success.

I genuinely believed that Allah was blessing my efforts.

When deals succeeded, I thanked him in my prayers.

When obstacles arose, I increased my religious devotions, assuming I needed to demonstrate greater faith to receive his favor.

The religious leader who guided our family taught me that wealth was a test from Allah and those who used it responsibly while maintaining humility would receive even greater blessings.

My daily routine reflected this Islamic foundation.

I walked before dawn for faga prayers, spend time reading Quranic verses, and began each business day by asking Allah for guidance.

Conference calls were scheduled around prayer times.

Important contracts included references to Allah’s will and Islamic principles.

My employees knew that our company operated according to Islamic values, prohibiting interestbased transactions and ensuring that all dealings remained halal.

I was the poster child for Islamic business success or so everyone sought.

My wealth exceeded 2 billion real by 840.

magazine covers featured my story as proof that Islamic principles could guide modern entrepreneurs to extraordinary prosperity.

Government officials praised my example, suggesting that other young Saudis should emulate my combination of religious devotion and business acumen.

Yet beneath this carefully constructed image, something was stirring that I couldn’t identify or control.

a restlessness that all my success couldn’t silence, a hunger that all my wealth couldn’t satisfy.

I had achieved everything my culture valued, exceeded every expectation my father had set, and fulfilled every religious obligation my faith required.

But somehow, despite possessing everything I had ever wanted, I was about to discover that I had nothing my soul actually needed.

Success became my prison and wealth became my burden.

The realization crept in slowly at first, like water seeping through cracks in a foundation.

I remember sitting in my penthouse office, overlooking Riyad’s glittering skyline, surrounded by awards and certificates, celebrating my business achievements, yet feeling completely hollow inside.

The city lights that once symbolized endless opportunity now seemed to mock me with their artificial brightness.

I had climbed to the summit of material success only to discover that the view from the top revealed an endless desert of emptiness.

The growing void manifested in ways I couldn’t ignore.

Sleep became elusive despite my exhaustion from 16-hour work days.

I would lie in my king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling of my master bedroom that cost more than most people’s homes, wondering why I felt so profoundly alone.

My wife would sleep peacefully beside me, unaware that her husband was drowning in spiritual quicksand.

The silence of those midnight hours was deafening, filled only with questions I couldn’t answer and a hunger I couldn’t identify.

My relationship with my wife deteriorated as I became increasingly consumed by work.

She accused me of being emotionally distant, of treating our marriage like another business transaction, requiring minimal investment for maximum return.

Her tears during our arguments pierced through my defenses, but I couldn’t explain what was happening to me because I didn’t understand it myself.

How could I tell her that I was suffocating under the weight of everything we had built together? How could I admit that our perfect life felt like an elaborate facade hiding a rotting foundation? The isolation was paradoxical and cruel.

My office burst with activity as employees sought my approval for deals worth millions.

My phone rang constantly with calls from government officials, international investors, and business partners eager to discuss new opportunities.

Yet, despite being surrounded by people who depended on me, respected me, and profited from their association with me, I felt completely alone.

Every conversation was transactional.

Every relationship was conditional.

Every interaction was calculated for mutual benefit rather than genuine connection.

I began questioning everything during those late night sessions in my office.

The Islamic prayers that had once brought me comfort now felt like empty rituals performed out of habit rather than heartfelt devotion.

I would kneel on my prayer rug reciting verses I had memorized as a child.

But the words felt hollow in my mouth.

Allah seemed distant, unreachable, perhaps even indifferent to my spiritual crisis.

My donations to Islamic charities continued, but they felt like payments made to maintain my reputation rather than expressions of genuine faith.

The breaking point came during what should have been the pinnacle of my career.

I had just closed a deal worth 500 million real, a renewable energy project that would cement my reputation as one of Saudi Arabia’s most successful entrepreneurs.

The contract signing took place in my boardroom witnessed by government officials and international partners who congratulated me on my vision and business acumen.

Photographers captured the moment for newspapers and magazines.

My father called personally to express his pride in my achievement.

But as the celebration continued around me, I felt absolutely nothing.

The champagne glasses raised in my honor, the handshakes and embraces, the promises of future collaborations, all of it felt like theater performed for an audience I no longer cared to impress.

I excused myself from the celebration, retreating to my private office, where I sat alone with the signed contract that represented more money than some countries annual budgets.

The paper felt weightless in my hands, meaningless despite its astronomical value.

My personal assistant found me there an hour later, still holding the contract and staring out the window at the city below.

She expressed concern about my visible distress, suggesting I should return to the celebration where important people were waiting to congratulate me.

But I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t pretend anymore that this achievement meant anything to me.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, have you ever achieved everything you wanted and felt absolutely nothing? That night marked the beginning of my desperate search for meaning.

I started reading philosophy books in secret, hiding them behind legitimate business publications when others entered my office.

Marcus Aurelius, Sirin Kirkagard, and Victor Frankl joined my nighttime reading as I searched for someone who could explain this existential crisis consuming my soul.

Their words resonated with my experience, but offered no real solutions, only confirmation that I wasn’t alone in feeling lost.

Despite material success, my conversations with my trusted driver became surprisingly profound during long trips between meetings.

This man, who earned in a year what I made in a day, possessed a contentment that my billions couldn’t purchase.

He spoke about his family with genuine joy, found pleasure in simple moments, and faced financial struggles with remarkable peace.

His happiness wasn’t dependent on stock market fluctuations or government contract approvals.

He possessed something I had lost somewhere between my first million and my first billion.

The religious rituals that had structured my entire life began feeling increasingly empty.

Friday prayers at the mosque became performances where I played the role of the successful devout Muslim businessman.

But internally, I questioned whether Allah was truly listening to my prayers or if I was simply talking to myself in an ornate building filled with other people going through similar motions.

The imam sermons about gratitude and submission rang hollow when I felt neither grateful nor submitted.

Despite having every reason to be thankful for my blessings, I started wondering if there was something more, something real beyond religious routine and material accumulation.

The thought terrified me because it suggested that everything I had built my life upon might be insufficient.

My identity was so intertwined with my success and religious image that questioning either felt like questioning my very existence.

Yet the questions persisted, growing stronger each day as the emptiness expanded like a black hole, consuming everything I had once valued.

The realization that no amount of money could fill this spiritual vacuum was both liberating and horrifying.

It meant that all my achievements, all my wealth, all my status meant nothing in the face of this deeper need I couldn’t even name.

I had spent decades climbing a ladder only to discover it was leaning against the wrong wall.

The divine setup began in the most unlikely place, a sterile conference room in Dubai’s financial district.

I had flown there for what I assumed would be another routine business meeting about a joint venture in renewable energy.

The proposal involved partnering with an American company to develop solar farms across the Middle East, a project worth nearly $800 million.

My assistant had scheduled the meeting with their CEO, describing him simply as a successful Christian businessman from Texas.

I gave little thought [snorts] to his religious background, viewing it as irrelevant to our potential partnership.

When I first met the Christian businessman, nothing about his appearance suggested he possessed anything I lacked.

He was perhaps 10 years older than me, dressed in a modest business suit that probably cost a tenth of what I typically wore.

His office was comfortable but unimpressive compared to my marble and goldappointed headquarters in Riyad.

Yet something about his demeanor immediately caught my attention.

He possessed a calmness that seemed to radiate from within, an authentic peace that wasn’t dependent on external circumstances or business outcomes.

During our initial discussions about the solar project, I found myself studying him more than the financial projections spread across the conference table.

His approach to business was refreshingly straightforward, lacking the aggressive posturing and subtle intimidation tactics common in high stakes negotiations.

When I mentioned potential obstacles or regulatory challenges, he listened thoughtfully rather than immediately strategizing ways to overcome or circumvent problems.

His responses revealed a man who viewed business success as secondary to something far more important.

The conversation took an unexpected turn during our lunch break.

Instead of discussing market penetrations or profit margins, he asked about my family, my interests outside of work, and surprisingly my sense of purpose beyond accumulating wealth.

These weren’t the typical networking questions designed to gather intelligence for future business advantage.

He seemed genuinely interested in me as a person rather than as a potential source of profit.

When was the last time someone with his level of success showed authentic interest in your well-being rather than what you could do for them.

I found myself opening up in ways that surprised me.

I mentioned the emptiness I had been feeling despite my material success.

The sense that something crucial was missing from my life despite having everything money could buy.

He listened without guggment, occasionally nodding as if my experiences resonated with his own past.

His eyes reflected understanding rather than the polite disinterest I typically encountered when discussing anything deeper than quarterly earnings or expansion strategies.

The Christian businessman shared his own story during that lunch, describing a period in his life when professional success had left him feeling spiritually bankrupt.

His wealth had grown exponentially during his 30s and 40s, but so had his sense of meaninglessness.

He spoke about sleepless nights spent questioning whether his achievements had any lasting significance beyond the numbers in his investment portfolios.

His description of that dark period mirrored my current experience so precisely that I wondered if he had somehow looked into my soul.

Then he said something that changed everything.

So I’m asking you just as someone who searched everywhere for answers.

Where do you find peace that money can’t buy? The question hit me like a physical blow because it articulated exactly what I had been seeking without knowing how to express it.

Peace that money couldn’t buy.

I had never considered that such peace might exist.

Having spent my entire adult life believing that financial security was the foundation of all other forms of contentment.

He continued sharing his story, explaining how his search for meaning had led him to Jesus Christ.

He spoke about Christianity not as a religion of rules and rituals, but as a personal relationship with a loving God who offered forgiveness, purpose, and eternal peace.

His description was unlike anything I had heard about Christianity before.

In Saudi Arabia, Christians were portrayed as misguided people who worshiped three gods and followed corrupted scriptures.

But this man spoke about Jesus with the same reverence I had been taught to show Allah, yet with an intimacy that seemed impossible in my understanding of relating to the divine.

As our business meeting concluded, the Christian businessman did something unprecedented in my experience.

He handed me a leather business portfolio, explaining it contained the usual contracts and financial projections, but hidden inside the folder was a Bible carefully placed so that only I would discover it when reviewing the documents privately.

He told me he would pray for my spiritual journey and ask if I would be open to exploring the questions that were troubling my soul.

That evening in my Dubai hotel suite, I discovered the Bible tucked between the solar project specifications.

The book felt foreign in my hands, forbidden yet compelling.

I had never held a Christian Bible before, having been taught that it was corrupted and inferior to the Quran.

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