I watched in slow motion as the red liquid splashed across the white marble floor, mixing with the broken glass.

In that split second, it looked exactly like blood.

A prophetic image of what was to come.

A boot kicked me in the back of the knees.

I hit the floor hard.

A [clears throat] heavy knee pressed into my neck, grinding my face against the cold tiles.

Don’t move, you dog.

Don’t move.

I couldn’t move, but I could see.

Through the forest of black combat boots, I scanned the room, desperate to see if my flock was okay.

I saw my brothers being zip tied.

I saw sisters weeping, their veils torn.

But then, my eyes locked onto something that made my blood freeze.

Amidst the swirling chaos, amidst the shouting soldiers and the crying victims, there was one figure standing perfectly still.

He was not on the floor.

He was not in handcuffs.

He was standing next to the commander of the unit.

It was Ahmed.

He looked calm, detached.

He was holding a clipboard.

I watched, unable to breathe as the commander leaned down to him.

Which one is the leader? Ahmed didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t look down in shame.

He turned his head slowly and pointed a finger directly at me.

Our eyes met.

I was waiting for a look of apology, a look of regret, even a look of fear, but there was nothing.

His eyes were dead.

It was the cold, flat stare of a man who had made a transaction.

I wasn’t his brother.

I wasn’t his pastor.

I was just a paycheck.

In that moment, the physical pain of the boot on my neck vanished.

It was replaced by a knife in my heart that twisted and turned.

The betrayal was so visceral, so absolute that I wanted to vomit.

That’s him, Ahmed said.

His voice was steady.

That’s Aram.

The soldiers hauled me up by my arms.

They didn’t let me put on my shoes.

They dragged me barefoot out of the villa across the sharp gravel of the driveway and threw me into the back of an armored van.

As the heavy metal door slammed shut, sealing me in total darkness.

The last thing I saw was the silhouette of Ahmed watching me go.

The journey to the prison took an hour, but it felt like a descent into the underworld.

I was blindfolded.

My hands were cuffed behind my back so tightly that my shoulders screamed in agony.

The van smelled of old sweat, rust, and fear.

They took me to the Mabahith General Investigation Directorate.

This isn’t a normal police station.

This is where political prisoners and terrorists go.

It is a place designed to strip a human being of their soul.

They stripped me naked.

They gave me a blue jumpsuit that [clears throat] was two sizes too small.

They threw me into a holding cell with 20 other men.

But they didn’t leave me there long.

They wanted me alone.

The interrogation began an hour later.

I will not describe the physical torture in graphic detail, for I do not want to glorify the violence.

But you must understand the reality.

They beat the szes of my feet with canes until I couldn’t stand.

They suspended me from the ceiling in stress positions for hours until my joints felt like they were separating.

They deprived me of sleep for 3 days straight, blasting loud music and flashing strobe lights every time I nodded off.

Their goal was simple.

Names.

We want names.

Who funds you? Are you working for the CIA? Are you working for the Zionists? I kept repeating the same thing through cracked lips and a swollen jaw.

I work for Jesus Christ.

My kingdom is not of this world.

This only made them angrier.

But the physical pain was manageable.

I had prepared myself for this.

I knew the history of the martyrs.

I knew that suffering was part of the calling.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the psychological torture.

On the fourth day, the beatings stopped.

I was brought into an interrogation room that was clean, aironditioned, and brightly lit.

Sitting behind a desk was a highranking officer.

He was clean shaven, wearing a pristine uniform, and he smelled of expensive oud cologne.

He didn’t shout, he smiled, a terrifying fatherly smile.

Acram, Acram, Acram,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Why do you protect them? They don’t protect you.

” “I don’t know what you mean,” I croked.

The officer reached into his drawer and pulled out a small digital recorder.

He placed it on the steel table between us.

“You think you are a hero,” he said softly.

“You think you are protecting your flock, but sheep don’t protect the shepherd.

Sheep get eaten,” he pressed play.

The voice that filled the room was crystal clear.

It was a voice I had listened to for hours over tea, a voice I had prayed with, a voice I loved.

Yes, Akim received the shipment on April 4th.

He keeps the Bibles in a false ceiling in his bathroom.

He baptized three new converts last Tuesday.

Here are their names.

It was Homade.

I sat there frozen.

I wasn’t listening to a confession.

I was listening to my own autopsy.

Every secret I had shared in confidence, every prayer request, every vulnerability, Ahmmed was reciting it to the police like a grocery list.

The officer watched my face closely, studying every micro expression.

He saw the light go out in my eyes.

He saw the moment my heart broke.

“He sold you, Acro,” the officer whispered, leaning in.

“For a promotion, for a bonus check.

He is sitting in his office right now drinking tea while you are here bleeding.

Where is your Jesus now? Did he tell you Ahmed was a snake? Or is your god deaf? He threw a file onto the table.

It slid across the metal surface and hit my handcuffed hands.

This is your death warrant, he said.

Signed by the high court.

Apostasy evangelizing Muslims forming a terror cell.

The sentence is death by beheading.

He stood up and straightened his jacket.

You have one week, one week to recant.

If you return to Islam, we might show mercy.

If you don’t, well, the sword is sharp.

I was dragged back to my cell, not as a defiant martyr, but as a broken man.

The physical pain was gone, drowned out by the deafening sound of Ahmed’s voice on that tape.

He sold me.

I was thrown into a solitary cell, cell number four.

For the first 24 hours, I didn’t pray.

I didn’t cry.

I sat in the corner rocking back and forth, consumed by a fire of hatred that was hotter than hell itself.

I hated Ahmed.

I hated him with every fiber of my being.

I closed my eyes and visualized his face.

I imagined getting out.

I imagined finding him.

I imagined wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing until the light left his eyes.

I wanted him to feel what I was feeling.

The devil loves this kind of pain.

He whispered to me in the darkness.

You were a fool to trust him.

God let this happen.

Justice is your right.

Hate him.

Curse him.

It felt good to hate.

It felt empowering.

It gave me energy, but it was a toxic energy.

It was poison.

I could feel it rotting my soul, turning my heart into stone.

I realized that if I died with this hatred in my heart, the executioner wouldn’t just kill my body.

He would send a bitter soul to eternity.

Then, gently, like a cool breeze in a furnace, the Holy Spirit began to speak.

It wasn’t an audible voice.

It was a memory, a verse I had memorized years ago.

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

” I shook my head.

“No,” I whispered to the empty cell.

No, Lord, don’t ask me this.

Jesus, they crucified you, but at least your disciples didn’t sell you out.

Wait, then I remembered Judas.

I remembered that Jesus washed Judas’s feet hours before the betrayal.

Jesus knew.

He knew the price.

He knew the kiss was coming.

And yet, he served him.

The argument with God lasted for hours.

Lord, he knew what he was doing.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was calculated malice.

Forgive him.

He is evil.

Forgive him.

He deserves to die.

So did you, Aram, before I found you.

That was the blow that shattered me.

I remembered who I was before Christ.

I remembered my own sin, my own hatred of Christians, my own arrogance.

God had forgiven me a debt I could never pay.

How could I choke my brother for owing me a few silver coins? I fell onto my face on the filthy concrete floor.

I was weeping so hard I couldn’t breathe.

Lord, I gasped.

I can’t do it.

I don’t have the strength.

I hate him.

I hate him.

Give me your hate.

I will take it.

Okay.

I sobbed.

Okay.

Lord Jesus, by an act of my will, not my emotions.

I choose to forgive Ahmed.

I spoke his name out loud.

I forgive Ahmed.

I release him.

I ask you not to charge the sin against him.

Save him, Lord.

Show him your face like you showed me.

As those words left my mouth, something supernatural happened in that cell.

It was physical.

I felt a heavy dark weight lift off my chest.

It felt like chains breaking.

The tension in my neck released.

The acid in my stomach neutralized.

I sat up.

The cell was still dark.

I was still facing execution, but I was free.

I was freer in that prison cell and Ahmed was in his office.

I had unlocked the only chain.

The police couldn’t touch the chain of bitterness.

I wiped my face.

I was ready to die now because now my heart was clean.

But the enemy does not give up easily.

After I refused to recant, they moved me to the hole.

Total isolation.

No light, no sound.

Just a 2 m by 2 m box of concrete darkness.

Day one passed.

Then day two, then day three.

Sensory deprivation is a terrifying thing.

When your eyes have nothing to see, your mind starts to invent monsters.

When your ears have nothing to hear, the silence starts to scream.

By day four, the piece of forgiveness began to fade, replaced by a crushing wave of depression.

This is the part of the story I don’t like to tell because Christians are supposed to be victorious.

But I want to be honest with you.

I broke.

I sat in the dark, shivering in my underwear, and the darkness entered my mind.

You are going to die for a myth.

Nobody knows where you are.

You will be beheaded, thrown in an unmarked grave, and forgotten.

End it now.

Why wait for the sword? Just bash your head against the wall.

It’s quicker.

The thought of suicide was seductive.

It offered control.

It offered an escape from the terror of the waiting.

I stood up.

I felt the rough texture of the wall.

I stepped back, gauging the distance.

I was ready to run.

I was ready to crack my own skull to stop the pain.

God, I screamed.

It was a primal scream.

Where are you? Have you brought me out to the desert to die? If you are real, kill me now.

Don’t let them take my head.

Just take my breath.

I collapsed into a fetal position, sobbing, waiting for death.

And then the atmosphere shifted.

It wasn’t a sound.

It was a smell.

The cell, which had smelled of mildew, urine, and old sweat for 4 days, suddenly smelled sweet.

It was the scent of roses, fresh blooming roses and rain.

The smell of the desert after a storm.

I stopped crying.

I lifted my head, sniffing the air.

What is that? Then the temperature changed.

The biting cold of the concrete vanished, replaced by a radiant warmth.

It felt like standing in front of a fireplace on a winter night.

Then the light came.

It didn’t come from the ceiling.

It didn’t come from the door.

It came from the corner of the room.

A tiny pin prick of golden light that expanded, unfolding like a flower.

It wasn’t a harsh, blinding light.

It was a living, breathing light.

It was thick, tangible.

As the light filled the room, the walls seemed to dissolve.

I was no longer in a prison cell.

I was in a throne room.

In the center of the light, I saw a figure.

I couldn’t make out the details of his face because the glory was too bright.

But I saw his eyes.

They were pools of infinite love.

I saw his hands.

I saw the scars.

My body, which had been trembling with cold and fear, was instantly paralyzed by a wave of peace.

It was a heavy piece.

Kabode, the weight of glory.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It wasn’t a ghostly touch.

It was a solid, heavy hand, a human hand, and a voice spoke.

It didn’t enter through my ears.

It resonated inside my rib cage, vibrating through my bones.

Acram, [clears throat] I am here.

You are not alone.

I tried to speak, but no words came out, just tears of joy.

Do not fear the sword, the voice said.

I have set a table for you in the presence of your enemies.

No weapon formed against you shall prosper.

Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.

For the next two days, day five and day six time didn’t exist.

I didn’t eat.

I didn’t drink.

I didn’t sleep.

I sat in that glory cloud bathed in love.

I saw visions.

I saw my family coming to Christ.

I saw churches springing up in the desert.

I laughed.

I danced in my underwear in that tiny cell.

I was the happiest man in Saudi Arabia.

On the morning of day seven, the steel door creaked open.

A beam of harsh flashlight cut through the divine light which faded but didn’t disappear.

It stayed inside me.

It was Hassan, one of the brutal guards who had beaten me earlier.

He stood in the doorway holding a tray of food.

He looked at me, expecting to find a broken suicidal wreck.

Instead, he found a man sitting cross-legged, glowing with joy.

Hassan dropped the tray.

“Clatter!” He stepped back, his eyes wide with fear.

He looked around the empty cell, searching the corners.

“Who is in here?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

I heard talking.

I saw I saw a light under the door.

Who is with you? I looked at him and smiled, a genuine smile of love.

You cannot see him, Hassan, I said gently.

But he is here.

The king is here, and he loves you, too.

Hassan stared at me for a long moment.

He saw something in my face that terrified him more than any weapon.

He saw a man who had no fear of death.

He slammed the door and ran.

I heard his boots echoing down the corridor.

He was running from the presence of God.

I stood up.

I knew it was time.

The sword was waiting.

But I wasn’t afraid anymore.

My Jesus was real, and he was walking with me to the scaffold.

March 7th, 2018.

500 a.

m.

The heavy steel door of my cell opened for the last time.

It wasn’t the aggressive slam of an interrogation.

It was the solemn metallic click of a destiny being sealed.

Two guards entered.

One of them was Hassan.

He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

His hands were shaking as he knelt to place the heavy shackles on my ankles.

Click, click.

Then the handcuffs on my wrists.

Click, click.

The air in the corridor smelled different that morning.

It smelled of cold concrete and inevitability.

They led me out to the courtyard.

A black armored van was waiting, its engine idling, puffing white exhaust into the cool desert air.

The sky to the east was a deep bruised purple, just beginning to bleed into dawn.

They shoved me into the back.

I sat on the metal bench, the cold seeping through my thin jumpsuit.

As the van lurched forward, I looked out through the small barbed window.

We drove through the streets of Riyad.

I watched the city waking up.

I saw a shopkeeper rolling up the metal shutter of his grocery store.

I saw a man in a car stopped at a red light, sipping his coffee, probably on his way to an office job.

I saw a stray cat jumping over a wall.

Life was going on.

Mundane, beautiful, ordinary life.

And in 20 minutes, my life would be over.

A strange sensation washed over me.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t anger.

It was love.

I looked at that shopkeeper and felt a fierce, protective love for him.

I prayed, “Lord, bless him.

Reveal yourself to him.

” I looked at the driver of our van in the rear view, mirror his eyes, tired, indifferent, and I prayed, “Lord, forgive him.

” I realized then that the Holy Spirit had dressed me in a garment of peace.

It felt heavier and more wheel than the chains on my wrists.

It was a supernatural anesthesia, numbing the terror of the flesh so that my spirit could stand tall.

The van slowed down.

We turned onto a wide avenue lined with palm trees.

Ahead, I saw the barricades.

I saw the flashing lights of police cars.

And I saw the crowd.

Dear a square.

The van stopped.

The engine cut.

The back door swung open and the roar of the crowd hit me like a physical wave.

I stepped out into the blinding morning sun.

There were perhaps 3,000 people gathered.

In Saudi Arabia, executions are public theater.

They are designed to terrify.

Men, young boys, shouting, jostling for a better view.

Some were chanting, “Aahu Akbar.

” Others were silent, morbidly curious.

I was led to the center of the square.

The ground was paved with light colored stones, polished smooth.

There was a drain, a simple black metal grate positioned right in the center.

I knew exactly what that drain was for.

It was to wash away the blood.

The guards forced me to my knees.

The stone was hard and cold against my skin.

Then the executioner stepped forward.

He was a giant of a man, dressed in all black.

He wore a hood that covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible eyes that were empty of all humanity.

In his right hand, he held the sword.

It was a traditional Arabian sif curved with a heavy steel blade that glinted menacingly in the sun.

It was not a ceremonial weapon.

It was a tool, sharp as a razor, heavy as an axe.

The commanding officer stepped up to a microphone.

His voice boomed across the square, echoing off the surrounding buildings.

Aram, son of the Imam, you have been found guilty of apostasy.

You have betrayed your faith, your family, and your country.

The sentence is death by beheading.

Do you have any last words? The square went silent.

3,000 people held their breath.

I lifted my head.

I looked at the sky where a single hawk was circling.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the dusty air of my homeland one last time.

Lord Jesus, I said, my voice clear and steady, loud enough for the microphone to catch.

Into your hands, I commit my spirit.

A ripple of shock went through the crowd, murmurss of anger.

He calls on the infidel god.

The executioner moved into position.

He stepped behind me.

I felt the flat of the blade tap against the back of my neck.

Tap, tap.

It is a ritual they do to make the muscles tense up, ensuring a cleaner cut.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t see darkness.

I saw a face, smiling, radiant, waiting.

I heard the sharp intake of breath from the executioner as he raised the sword high above his head.

I heard the fabric of his clothes rustle.

I felt the displacement of air as the heavy steel blade began its downward arc.

I braced myself.

I waited for the bite.

I waited for the end.

asterisk asterisk clang asterisk asterisk The sound was deafening.

It didn’t sound like metal hitting moan.

It sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a solid steel anvil.

A high-pitched vibrating ring that pierced the ears of everyone in the square.

A shock wave of energy pure kinetic force exploded from the air above my neck.

It knocked me sideways.

I fell onto my shoulder, gasping.

My eyes flying open.

I looked up.

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