When I was explaining a theological point or answering a question about Islamic practice, I heard Christian alternatives in my head.

The gospel contradicted so much of what I was teaching.

Several times I nearly gave myself away.

Once during a teaching session, I was explaining Islamic sotiology, the doctrine of salvation, and I started to say something about grace before catching myself.

Another time, I was about to refer to God as father in front of a group of students.

My wife noticed something was different.

She would ask if I was feeling all right, if I was stressed about something.

I would make excuses, work pressure, community issues, not sleeping well.

But at night, alone, I would read my Bible voraciously.

Now that I was a believer, the scriptures came alive in a way they never had before.

I understood what Christians meant when they said the Bible was God’s living word.

Every passage spoke to me, taught me, encouraged me.

I devoured the Gospels, reading Jesus words over and over.

I read the epistles, Paul’s letters explaining salvation, grace, life in Christ.

I read the Psalms, and found prayers that expressed what my heart was feeling better than I could express it myself.

I was being discipled by scripture and by continued conversations with Yousef through encrypted messaging.

He was amazed and thrilled by my testimony about the vision.

He told me such encounters were rare but not unheard of.

Jesus often revealed himself to Muslims in dreams and visions because they couldn’t encounter him any other way.

Yousef became my lifeline.

He answered my questions about Christianity, helped me understand basic theology, taught me how to pray, explained what it meant to live as a follower of Christ.

He also warned me repeatedly, “You’re in danger.

You can’t stay there much longer.

You need to start making plans to leave Saudi Arabia.

” I knew he was right.

But leaving meant abandoning my family, my children, my career, my entire life.

How could I do that yet? How could I stay? Every day I remained was another day of living a lie, of public hypocrisy.

More than that, every day was another day I could be discovered.

And discovery would mean death.

I made a decision that I knew was important, even necessary, despite the risk.

I needed to be baptized.

According to Jesus’ command in Matthew chapter 28, believers were to be baptized in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit.

Baptism was the public declaration of faith, the symbolic death and resurrection with Christ, the entrance into the Christian community.

But how could I be baptized in Saudi Arabia? There were no churches, no pastors, no legal way to do this.

Yousef connected me with an underground Christian network.

I learned that there were secret believers in Saudi Arabia, both foreigners and a small number of Saudi converts.

They met in homes in complete secrecy, sometimes just two or three people gathering to pray and study the Bible.

Through these connections, I was invited to a house meeting.

I was given an address in a different part of Jedha, told to arrive after dark, to park a few streets away, to be careful I wasn’t followed.

I told my wife I had a late meeting with another shake to discuss mosque business.

Then I drove across the city, my heart pounding, constantly checking my mirrors to make sure I wasn’t being tailed by religious police.

The house was ordinaryl looking from the outside, indistinguishable from any other in the neighborhood.

I knocked on the door with a specific pattern I had been told to use.

The door opened slightly.

A face peered out at me.

Then it opened wider to let me in before closing quickly behind me.

Inside were eight people.

Three were western expatriots working in Saudi Arabia.

Five were Arabs, four from other countries, and one I would learn who was Saudi like me.

We greeted each other carefully.

I was wearing my th and Shema, and I could see the surprise and caution in their eyes.

A shake at their secret Christian meeting.

Was this a trap? But when I began to speak, when I shared my testimony about the vision of Jesus, when I showed them my Bible app and explained my journey from Islam, their caution turned to joy.

They welcomed me as a brother.

Several embraced me, tears in their eyes.

The meeting was simple.

We sang Christian songs in hushed voices, careful not to be too loud.

We prayed together.

Not the formal ritualistic prayers of Islam, but spontaneous heartfelt prayers.

People prayed for each other, for wisdom, are for protection, for opportunities to share the gospel.

Then we studied the Bible together, reading through passages in the book of Acts about the early church.

The parallels to our own situation were obvious.

The early Christians had also gathered in secret, also faced persecution, also risk their lives to follow Jesus.

At the end of the meeting, the host, a Filipino man who had been living in Jedha for 10 years, asked if anyone needed prayer for anything specific.

I spoke up.

I want to be baptized.

Silence fell over the group.

Then the Filipino man smiled.

He said, “Let’s do it right now.

” They didn’t have a baptismal pool or even a bathtub big enough, but they had a shower.

One of the Saudi brothers, the only other Saudi convert in the room, said he would baptize me.

We went to the bathroom.

I removed my th and stood in the shower in my underclo.

The other Saudi brother, whose name I’ll call Khaled, turned on the water.

The rest of the group crowded into the doorway witnessing this baptism.

Khaled asked me, “Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, that he died for your sins and rose again, and do you accept him as your Lord and Savior?” I said, “I do believe Jesus is my Lord and my Savior.

Khaled said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

” He poured water over my head.

The water ran down my face and body and I felt symbolically like I was washing away my old life, my old identity, my old religion.

I was dying to my former self and rising as a new creation in Christ.

When I stepped out of the shower, dripping wet, everyone was crying and smiling.

They embraced me.

He welcomed me into the family of God.

For the first time since my encounter with Jesus, I felt like I wasn’t alone.

I was part of something bigger than myself.

The body of Christ, the church, the worldwide community of believers.

That night was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

I left that house feeling more alive, more at peace, more certain of my identity in Christ than I had ever felt as a Muslim.

But I also left knowing that time was running out.

I couldn’t maintain this double life much longer.

Something had to give.

Over the next two months, I tried to figure out a way forward.

Could I continue as a shake while secretly being Christian? Could I gradually influence people toward Jesus while pretending to be Muslim? Yousef and my new Christian friends told me this wasn’t viable.

Living a lie wasn’t honoring to God.

the more practically I would inevitably be discovered and the longer I waited, the more people I would hurt when the truth came out.

I needed to leave Saudi Arabia.

But how and when? Leaving wasn’t simple.

As a Saudi citizen, I couldn’t just claim refugee status somewhere.

I would need to get out of the country first, then apply for asylum.

This meant careful planning.

Yousef connected me with organizations that helped persecuted Christians escape dangerous countries.

They advised me on the process, the timing, the documentation I would need.

The plan they suggested was this.

I should arrange to travel for Umrah, the minor pilgrimage to Mecca, or for some other legitimate religious reason.

Once I was already traveling, it would be easier to divert to another country, Jordan or Egypt perhaps, and from there apply for asylum in a western country.

I began making preparations, setting aside money from my mosque salary, getting my documents in order, but I kept delaying.

I kept finding reasons to wait a little longer.

The truth is, I was terrified of leaving, terrified of losing my children, terrified of starting over in a foreign country with nothing, terrified of breaking my parents’ hearts, terrified of the consequences for my reputation, my legacy, everything I had built.

But I was also terrified of staying, of being discovered, of what would happen to me and possibly to my family.

if my conversion became known.

I was trapped between two terrifying futures, unable to choose, paralyzed by fear.

Then the decision was made for me.

One evening about 3 months after my encounter with Jesus, I made a careless mistake.

I was reading my Bible on my phone, sitting in the living room while my wife was in the kitchen.

My teenage son came into the room unexpectedly and I didn’t have time to switch to another app.

He saw the screen.

He asked, “Is that a Bible?” My heart stopped.

I tried to laugh it off, saying I was doing research for a debate with Christians online, but I could see the suspicion in his eyes.

Over the next few days, he must have told his mother what he saw.

My wife began questioning me more insistently.

Was something wrong? Was I having doubts about Islam? Was I being influenced by my online debates with Christians? I denied everything, but I could feel the walls closing in.

Then my son, curious or concerned, or perhaps looking to prove his suspicion, I checked my computer while I was at the mosque.

He found my browsing history, the Christian websites, the testimony videos, the downloaded articles about Christianity.

When I came home that evening, the atmosphere was different.

My wife’s eyes were red from crying.

My older children looked frightened.

My wife confronted me.

She told me what our son had found.

She asked me directly, “Have you left Islam?” I looked at my family, my wife of 15 years, my three children, the people I loved most in the world.

I thought about lying, about making excuses, about trying to cover my tracks.

But I was so tired of lying, so tired of pretending.

And I remembered Jesus’ words.

Whoever denies me before men, I will deny before my father in heaven.

I took a breath and told the truth.

I believe Issa al-Masi is Lord.

I believe he is the son of God.

I believe he died for my sins and rose again.

I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever.

Then my wife began to wail, a sound of grief and horror.

My children looked at me with confusion and fear.

My wife began shouting, “How could you? How could you betray Islam, betray our family? You’ve ruined us.

You’ve disgraced us.

” She grabbed our children and took them to their rooms, slamming doors.

I stood alone in the living room, shaking, realizing I had just set in motion events I couldn’t stop.

Within an hour, my wife had called my father and brothers.

Within 2 hours, they were at our house.

My confession had become public, and my life, as I knew it, was over.

The next 72 hours were a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

My father arrived at our house first with his face a mask of shock and grief.

He didn’t speak to me initially.

He went straight to my wife asking her if it was true, if I had really said what she claimed I had said.

When she confirmed it, when she showed him the evidence my son had found on my computer, my father sat down heavily on the sofa as if his legs could no longer support him.

He aged 10 years in that moment.

The strong, confident Islamic scholar suddenly looked like a frail old man.

My brothers came next.

Three of them, all Islamic teachers themselves, all carrying on the family tradition.

They burst into the house, not with grief, but with rage.

The eldest Ahmed grabbed me by my th and shoved me against the wall.

He spoke through clenched teeth.

Tell me this is a misunderstanding.

Tell me you’re doing research.

Tell me anything except that you’ve become a cfair or an apostate.

But I couldn’t lie anymore.

I had crossed the line.

There was no going back.

I said quietly, “I believe in Jesus Christ.

He is Lord.

He is the son of God.

” Ahmed slapped me hard across the face.

The blow snapped my head to the side.

My father shouted at him to stop.

that violence wouldn’t help.

But I could see the same fury in all their eyes.

My brothers began shouting at me all at once, calling me a traitor, a disgrace, a fool.

They demanded to know how this had happened.

Had Christians paid me? Had I been brainwashed? How could someone with my education, my knowledge of Islam make such a stupid decision? I tried to explain about my doubts, about searching for certainty, about encountering Jesus in a vision, but they wouldn’t listen.

To them, this was either insanity or demonic possession or western influence corrupting me.

My mother arrived last, brought by one of my sisters.

When she saw me, she began wailing and beating her chest in the traditional expression of grief.

She cried out, “My son is dead.

My son has died.

I have lost him.

To her, I was dead.

In Islamic culture, apostasy is treated like death.

I was being mourned as if I had actually died because in their eyes, the son they knew no longer existed.

My family essentially placed me under house arrest.

They confiscated my phone, my computer, my car keys.

They stationed my brothers outside the house in shifts to make sure I didn’t leave.

They wouldn’t allow me to go to the mosque, wouldn’t allow me to interact with anyone outside the family.

I was a prisoner in my own home.

The next day, my father arranged for other shakes to come talk to me, prominent scholars, respected imams, men I had studied under years ago.

They came in groups sitting in our majis surrounding me presenting arguments designed to bring me back to Islam.

They ask questions about my doubts about what had led me astray.

When I mention my questions about salvation, they explain the standard Islamic answers.

Allah’s mercy, the importance of good deeds, the need to trust in his wisdom.

When I mentioned Jesus’ unique titles in the Quran, they explained that these were honorific but didn’t make Jesus divine.

He was still just a prophet.

When I talked about my vision of Jesus, they told me it was Shayan deceiving me.

Satan could appear in any form except that of Muhammad.

My vision was a spiritual attack meant to lead me away from truth.

They quoted Quranic verses about the consequences of apostasy.

They reminded me of hadith where Muhammad said, “Whoever changes his religion, kill him.

” They weren’t explicitly threatening me.

Not yet.

But the implication was clear.

They brought books, printed articles, videos of Islamic scholars refuting Christianity.

They showed me testimonies of people who had left Islam but returned.

They argued.

They pleaded.

They tried every angle.

I sat through these sessions in silence mostly.

Not arguing back, not defending Christianity.

What was the point? They weren’t there to have an honest dialogue.

They were there to force me to recant.

One elderly shake who had been my teacher years ago spoke to me more gently than the others.

He told me he understood I was going through a crisis of faith that many Muslims experienced doubts at some point.

He said this was a test from Allah that Satan was attacking me precisely because I was such an effective defender of Islam.

He urged me to just say the shahada again to recite the Islamic declaration of faith.

Just say the words, he pleaded.

Even if you don’t feel the certainty right now, say the words, Allah will restore your faith in time.

His approach was kinder, but the message was the same.

Come back to Islam.

Deny Christ.

Save yourself.

I thought about Jesus words.

Whoever denies me before men, I will deny before my father in heaven.

I couldn’t do it.

Even to save my life, even to restore my family relationships, I couldn’t deny the one who had saved me, the one who had loved me enough to die for me.

So I remained silent, which everyone interpreted as stubbornness.

On the third day, the tone changed from persuasion to threats.

My uncle, who was a prominent shake with connections to the religious establishment, came to speak with my father privately.

I wasn’t in the room, but I could hear their voices through the wall.

They were discussing what to do with me.

My uncle’s voice was harsh.

If he doesn’t recant, we have no choice.

We must report him to the authorities.

Apostasy is a crime against Islam and against the state.

The committee for the promotion of virtue and the prevention of vice needs to be informed.

My father’s voice was pained.

He’s my son.

You’re talking about my son’s life.

My uncle responded.

He’s not your son anymore.

He’s a mertad, an apostate.

He’s betrayed Allah, the prophet, and his family.

Would you rather have the whole family’s reputation destroyed? Would you rather have people say we sheltered an apostate? Later that evening, two of my brothers pulled me aside.

The younger one, Khaled, had always been closest to me growing up.

He spoke quietly.

Brother, you need to understand how serious this is.

If you don’t recant, father won’t be able to protect you.

Uncle Hamza wants to involve the Mutawin.

You know what that means? I knew exactly what it meant.

The Mutawin, the religious police, had authority to arrest people for religious crimes.

If they took me, I would be interrogated, possibly tortured.

certainly tried under Sharia law for apostasy.

The penalty was death.

Khaled continued, “Even if father manages to keep the mutawin out of it, there are others in the family in the community who believe it’s their duty to to handle this to protect the family honor.

” Do you understand what I’m saying? He was warning me about honor killing.

He was telling me that members of my own family might decide to kill me themselves rather than let me live as an apostate and bring shame on the family name.

I asked him directly, “Are you one of those people? Would you kill me?” He looked away, tears in his eyes.

He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

My other brother, Ahmed, was less conflicted.

He spoke with cold certainty.

You have until tomorrow evening.

Either recant and return to Islam or we hand you over to the authorities.

Those are your only options.

Think about your children.

Think about your wife.

She’ll divorce you.

She has to divorce an apostate.

Your children will grow up with the shame of having an apostate father.

Is that really what you want? The mention of my children broke my heart.

I had barely seen them since my confession.

My wife was keeping them away from me and telling them their father had gone crazy, had been deceived by Satan.

My youngest daughter, only 8 years old, was told I was sick and needed to be away from them for a while.

The idea that I might never see them again, that they would grow up believing I had betrayed them, was almost unbearable.

That night, alone in the guest room where I was essentially imprisoned, I prayed desperately.

I prayed to Jesus, asking for wisdom, for strength, for a way out.

I thought about giving in.

I thought about saying the shahada, pretending to return to Islam, playing the long game.

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