I could fake Islamic faith publicly while remaining Christian privately.

People did this in persecuted areas.

They were called crypto-christians, secret believers.

But even as I considered it, I knew it was wrong.

Living a lie wasn’t faithful to Christ.

And more practically, I would be monitored constantly now.

Any slip up, any indication I was still Christian, and the consequences would be even worse.

I thought about my vision of Jesus, about his love, about the peace and assurance I had found in him.

Was that worth dying for? Was Jesus worth losing everything? The answer I realized was yes.

Absolutely yes.

Jesus had given up heaven, taken on human flesh, suffered, and died on a Roman cross for me.

Could I not give up my comfortable life for him? Could I not be willing to lose everything for the one who had given me everything? But I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live.

I wanted to grow in my faith.

I wanted to serve Christ.

I wanted someday, somehow to see my children again and tell them about Jesus.

That meant I had to escape.

The next morning, while my brothers were downstairs arguing with my father about what to do with me, I managed to get to the window of the guest room.

I was on the second floor, but there was a ledge and beyond it a neighbor’s wall I might be able to reach.

But before I could seriously consider climbing out the window, my youngest brother, Khaled, entered the room.

He closed the door behind him and spoke quickly in a whisper.

I can’t watch them kill you.

I disagree with your choice, but you’re still my brother.

He handed me my phone, which he had retrieved from where my father had locked it away.

He also gave me some cash, my wallet with my ID and passport and keys to his car.

He continued speaking quickly.

In 2 hours, I’m going to tell them I need to go to the mosque for door prayer.

I’ll leave my car parked three streets over behind the abandoned building on Alraa Street.

If you can get out, take the car, drive to the airport, get on any international flight you can.

Umrah, business trip, anything.

Just get out of Saudi Arabia.

I was stunned.

Why are you helping me? He looked conflicted, pained.

Because I don’t want your blood on my hands.

Because part of me wonders if you actually found something real.

And I’m terrified of being on the wrong side of truth.

And because despite everything, I love you.

Before I could respond, he left the room quickly.

This was my chance, possibly my only chance.

For the next 2 hours, I waited in agony, listening to the sounds of my family downstairs, praying that Khaled’s plan would work.

Finally, I heard him leave, saying he was going to the mosque.

My father was resting.

My brothers Ahmed and Hassan were in the kitchen.

My wife was with the children in another part of the house.

The guest room door wasn’t locked.

They hadn’t thought I would try to leave.

And where would I go anyway? I opened the door quietly, crept down the stairs, and slipped out the front door before anyone noticed.

I walked quickly, but tried not to run.

Running would attract attention.

I found Khaled’s car where he said it would be.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition.

I drove toward the airport, my heart pounding, expecting any moment to see my brothers behind me or worse, to be pulled over by police.

But nothing happened.

The traffic was normal.

The city looked ordinary.

And somehow, impossibly, I was free.

At King Abdulaziz International Airport, I stood in line at the ticket counter, trying to look calm while my mind raced.

Where should I go? What should I say? I saw that there was a flight to Cairo leaving in 3 hours.

Egypt was close, large enough to get lost in, and from there I could figure out next steps.

I bought a one-way ticket, telling the agent I had sudden business there.

She didn’t question it.

Saudi men traveled frequently for business and religious purposes.

Going through security was terrifying.

Every time a security officer looked at me, I thought, “This is it.

They know my family has reported me.

I’m going to be arrested right here.

” But no one stopped me.

My passport was scanned.

My bag was checked, and I was waved through.

I sat in the departure lounge, trying to blend in, trying not to look like a man fleeing for his life.

I kept my phone off.

I didn’t want my family tracking me or calling me.

I couldn’t risk the guilt or manipulation that would come if I heard my father’s voice or my wife’s tears.

The boarding call came.

I walked onto the plane.

I found my seat.

The door closed.

The plane began to taxi.

And then we were lifting off, climbing into the air.

And I watched through the window as Jedha, my hometown, the city where I was born and raised, the place that held everyone and everything I had ever loved, grew smaller and smaller beneath me.

I was leaving behind my family, my children, my career, my reputation, my entire identity.

I was leaving behind the only life I had ever known.

But I was carrying with me something I had never had before.

Salvation, peace, and certainty that I belonged to Christ.

As the plane climbed above the clouds and Saudi Arabia disappeared from view, I closed my eyes and prayed, “Jesus, I don’t know what comes next.

I don’t know where this will lead, but I’m yours.

Guide me.

Protect me.

Use me.

” And beneath the fear and grief and uncertainty, I felt that familiar peace.

The peace that Jesus had given me.

The peace that the world cannot give.

The peace that passes all understanding.

I was free.

Not just physically free from Saudi Arabia, but spiritually free in Christ.

Whatever came next, I was ready to face it because I wasn’t facing it alone.

The plane touched down in Cairo just before midnight.

I walked through the airport in a days, my legs weak, my mind struggling to process what had just happened.

I had escaped.

I was out of Saudi Arabia.

I was alive.

But what now? I had some cash, a credit card that would work for maybe a few days before my family blocked it and the clothes on my back.

I had no plan.

In no contacts in Egypt, nowhere to stay.

I found a small hotel near the airport, paid cash for a room for one night, and collapsed on the bed.

Only then did I turn on my phone.

It exploded with notifications.

Dozens of missed calls from my family, angry text messages, voice messages ranging from my father’s please to come home to my uncle’s threats about what would happen if I didn’t return.

There was also a message from my wife saying she had filed for divorce, that she was telling the children I had abandoned them, that I was never to contact them again.

Reading her words, seeing the finality of it broke something inside me.

I had known this was coming, but knowing it and experiencing it are very different things.

I would never again tuck my children into bed, never watch them grow up, never be there for their graduations or weddings or important moments.

they would be raised to hate me, to see me as a traitor and disgrace.

I wept harder than I had ever wept in my life.

The price of following Jesus was far higher than I had imagined.

But even through the grief, I knew I had made the right choice.

Jesus was worth it.

Salvation was worth it.

Truth was worth it.

The next morning, I contacted Yousef through an encrypted messaging app.

He responded immediately, thanking God that I was safe.

He connected me with a Christian ministry in Cairo that helped religious refugees.

Within a few hours, I was sitting in a small office with a Coptic Christian man named Michael who worked with this organization.

He had heard hundreds of stories like mine.

Muslims who converted to Christianity and fled persecution.

A Michael explained the process.

I would need to register with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, tell them my story, and apply for refugee status.

If approved, I could then be resettled to a western country that accepted religious refugees.

But the process would take time, months, possibly years.

In the meantime, I would live in Cairo in legal limbo, unable to work officially, dependent on charity from churches and refugee organizations.

Michael helped me find a cheap apartment in a workingclass neighborhood of Cairo.

It was tiny, just one room with a small bathroom, but it was safe and affordable.

He connected me with a church that provided financial support for refugees and a community of other believers who had fled persecution.

For the first time in months, I could breathe.

I wasn’t looking over my shoulder constantly.

I wasn’t living a lie.

I was free to be a Christian openly.

The UNHCR interview process was intense.

I had to prove that I was genuinely at risk if I returned to Saudi Arabia.

They needed documentation, evidence of my conversion, proof of threats.

I showed them the messages from my family threatening me.

I showed them my baptism photos from the secret house church meeting.

I explained Saudi Arabia’s apostasy laws, the potential death penalty, the honor killing culture.

The interviewer, a woman from Europe, listened carefully and took detailed notes.

She told me that Saudi converts to Christianity were generally considered high priority cases because the danger was real and well documented.

After three interviews over several months, I was granted official refugee status.

Now I just had to wait for a country to accept me for resettlement.

The waiting was difficult.

Cairo was hot, crowded, chaotic.

I didn’t speak Egyptian Arabic well.

The dialect was different from what I was used to.

I had no income except small monthly stipens from the church and refugee organizations.

I lived in poverty, something I had never experienced before.

But I was also growing spiritually in ways I never had as a Muslim.

I attended church every week, often multiple times a week.

I was being discipled by a pastor who had himself converted from Islam years earlier.

I was reading the Bible systematically, studying theology, learning what it meant to live as a Christian.

I also connected with other Saudi converts.

There were a handful in Cairo, all in similar situations.

We became like family, understanding each other’s pain and joy in ways no one else could.

One of these men in a former Imam named Omar became my close friend.

We would spend hours talking about our journeys, about the cost of following Christ, about our hopes and fears for the future.

Omar asked me once, “Do you regret it? Would you go back if you could?” I thought about my children, about my lost life, about everything I had given up.

Then I thought about Jesus, about the peace I now had, about the certainty of my salvation, about the love of God I had discovered.

I answered honestly, I regret the pain I’ve caused others.

I grieve what I’ve lost, but I don’t regret knowing Jesus.

I would make the same choice again.

After eight months in Cairo, I received news.

Canada had approved my application for resettlement.

I would be relocated to a city I had barely heard of, starting a completely new life in a completely foreign culture.

The day I left Cairo, the small community of believers I had come to know gathered to pray over me and send me off.

We sang hymns together.

We cried together.

We thanked God together for his faithfulness.

On the flight to Canada, I reflected on how much had changed in less than a year.

A year ago, I was a respected shake in Jedha, living a comfortable life, confident in my religious knowledge.

Now, I was a refugee with nothing, flying to a foreign country, starting from zero.

But I had Jesus.

I had peace.

I had salvation.

I had purpose.

The plane landed in a Canadian city in mid-inter.

I stepped off the plane into cold I had never experienced.

Negative temperatures, snow on the ground, a landscape completely unlike the desert I had known all my life.

A representative from the refugee resettlement agency met me at the airport with a warm coat, gloves, and a hat.

She smiled and welcomed me to Canada in English.

I barely understood her.

My English was limited to what I had learned online.

She drove me to a small apartment that had been prepared for me.

It was furnished simply but had everything I needed.

A bed, a kitchen, a bathroom.

It was mine.

A place where I could be Christian openly, where I wouldn’t be arrested or killed for my faith.

That first night, alone in my new apartment in this new country, I stood at the window looking at the snow falling outside and I prayed, “Thank you, Jesus.

Thank you for saving me.

Thank you for bringing me here.

Show me what you want me to do with this new life you’ve given me.

The first year in Canada was extremely difficult.

Learning English was hard, especially at my age.

I was in my late 30s, having to learn a new language from scratch like a child.

The culture shock was overwhelming.

Everything was different.

the weather, the food, the social customs, the way people interacted.

I felt lost and isolated much of the time.

I received government assistance for the first year, help with rent, a small living allowance, access to English classes.

I was grateful, but also humbled.

I had gone from being a respected professional to being dependent on charity and government support.

But the local church community embraced me.

They helped me navigate practical challenges like opening a bank account, using public transportation, shopping for groceries.

They invited me to their homes, included me in their gatherings, treated me like family.

Slowly, very slowly, here I began to adjust.

My English improved.

I learned to dress for the cult.

I discovered Tim Hortons and hockey and Canadian politeness.

I also began to heal emotionally being in a safe environment, not living in constant fear, being able to worship Christ freely.

These things allowed the trauma of my escape to gradually process.

I started therapy with a counselor who specialized in helping refugees.

I hadn’t realized how much trauma I was carrying.

Not just from the escape, but from years of spiritual abuse in Islam, from the guilt and shame that had defined my Islamic faith, from the loss of my children.

The counselor helped me understand that grief and joy could coexist.

I could be grateful for my salvation and my new life while still grieving what I had lost.

Both were valid.

Both were real.

About 2 years after arriving in Canada, I felt God calling me to ministry.

Not as a professional pastor.

I didn’t have the education or credentials for that.

But as someone who could share the gospel with Muslims, particularly Arabic speakaking Muslims, I started volunteering at my church’s outreach to Middle Eastern refugees.

Many were coming to Canada, fleeing war and persecution.

Most were Muslim, but some were curious about Christianity, and a few were secret believers like I had been.

I began sharing my testimony with them, explaining how I went from being a shake to following Christ.

Some were hostile, some were curious, some were openly searching.

Over the next few years, I had the privilege of leading several Muslims to Christ.

Each time someone prayed to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior, I felt overwhelming joy.

These were my spiritual children, the family God was giving me to replace the biological family I had lost.

I also started an online ministry creating content in Arabic about Christianity.

I shared my testimony on YouTube and other platforms using a pseudonym and disguising my face for safety.

The videos reached thousands of Arabic speakers around the world, including in Saudi Arabia.

I received messages from Muslims with questions about Jesus, from secret believers who felt alone and needed encouragement, from people going through the same journey I had gone through.

This became my purpose, my calling.

God had allowed me to go through everything I had gone through.

the doubts, the search, the encounter with Jesus, the persecution, the exile so that I could help others find the same truth and freedom I had found.

It’s been 7 years now since I left Saudi Arabia.

A 7 years since I last saw my children.

They’re teenagers now, almost adults.

I have no contact with them.

My ex-wife ensured that completely.

But I pray for them every day.

I pray that somehow someway they’ll encounter Jesus like I did.

I pray that the seeds of faith might somehow be planted in their hearts.

I pray that in eternity we’ll be reunited.

I live simply here in Canada.

I have a small apartment, a part-time job that pays the bills, and a ministry that consumes most of my free time.

I’m not wealthy.

I’ll never have the material comfort I once had.

But I have something far more valuable.

I have peace with God.

I have certainty of salvation.

I have purpose.

I have joy.

The Christian life hasn’t been easy.

I still face challenges, still struggle with doubts sometimes, still wrestle with loneliness and grief.

Following Jesus doesn’t mean life becomes perfect.

Jesus himself promised we would face trials and persecution.

But he also promised he would never leave us or forsake us.

And that promise has proven true every single day of my life since I first encountered him on that prayer rug in Jedha.

People sometimes ask me if it was worth it, worth losing my family, my career, my country, my entire former life.

They ask if I regret converting to Christianity if the cost was too high.

My answer is always the same.

Jesus is worth everything.

knowing him, being known by him, having the assurance of salvation, experiencing his love.

These things are worth any cost.

In Islam, I served Allah for over 30 years, and I never had peace.

I never had certainty.

I was constantly striving, constantly uncertain, constantly afraid I wasn’t doing enough, that I wasn’t good enough.

But in Christ, I have rest.

Not because I’ve earned it, but because Jesus earned it for me.

My salvation doesn’t depend on my performance.

It depends on his finished work on the cross.

That truth has transformed everything.

I think about Jesus’ words in Matthew chapter 16 26.

What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world yet forfeit their soul? I lost my world, my career, my reputation, my family, my country.

But I gained my soul.

I gained eternal life.

I gained Christ.

That’s not a bad trade.

I want to speak directly to three groups of people who might hear my story.

First, to my fellow Muslims who are reading or watching this.

I know what you’re feeling.

If you’re questioning, if you’re searching, if you’re not satisfied with Islam, I’ve been where you are.

I understand the fear, the guilt, the sense that even asking questions is betraying your family and community.

But I want you to know Jesus loves you.

He died for you.

He’s seeking you right now.

Even as you read these words, the gospel message is simple.

You are a sinner.

You cannot save yourself through good deeds or religious practice.

But God loves you so much that he sent his son Jesus to pay the penalty for your sins.

Jesus died on the cross and rose from the dead, defeating sin and death.

If you believe in him, if you accept his sacrifice, you are saved.

Not maybe saved, not possibly saved, saved, eternally secure.

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