IN SAUDI ARABIA, A CHRISTIAN TIED ON HIS KNEES READY TO BE EXECUTED FOR HIS FAITH…a MIRACLE happened

Brothers, there are secrets buried in the soul because they hurt too much to pronounce.

This is mine.

I am Tariq Al-Harbi.

I am 43 years old.

And for most of my life, I was an honorable man in Riyad, Saudi Arabia.

Even the younger brother of one of the most influential officials in the kingdom.

But in August 2018, I understood that the line between life and eternity can be reduced to a single breath.

I remember kneeling on the sand blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.

The cold metal of a gun pressed against my neck as someone dictated my sentence.

Abandon Islam to follow Christ.

Death was imminent.

And yet that day I discovered that God can also break into the midst of a final verdict.

What truly happened that night on the outskirts of Riad is something no authority could explain.

Something the witnesses never managed to understand, but which I know with absolute certainty was the manifestation of the sovereign power of Lord Jesus Christ in a way I will never forget as long as I breathe.

I was born into a respected family with influence.

My father Abdullah Al-Hari had been an adviser to the royal court on economic matters and my older brother Faizal at 49 years old held a prominent position in the Ministry of Interior.

A family perfectly integrated into the system, strictly observant of Islamic law, proud of their roots and traditions.

But my story took an unexpected turn during my post-graduate studies in London.

I was 32 years old when I traveled to England to obtain a master’s degree in international finance.

My parents were proud.

It was the right path for someone of my position.

What no one could foresee was that in that western city, far from the watchful eyes of my community, I would meet the one who would change my life forever, Jesus of Nazareth.

It all began at university where I befriended Michael, a British student who invited me to his study group.

What he didn’t tell me was that it was a Bible study group.

At first, I attended out of academic curiosity, convinced that my Islamic faith was unbreakable.

But something started to happen inside me when I listened to the teachings about this Jesus who loved his enemies, who offered a personal relationship with God, who promised inner freedom.

After months of internal struggles, questions, sleepless nights, and an intense search for the truth, I experienced what I can only describe as a personal encounter with Christ.

It was not spectacular externally.

There were no lights or audible voices, only a deep conviction that transformed my heart as if it had been replaced with a new one.

I knew perfectly well what my decision meant.

In Saudi Arabia, apostasy, abandoning Islam is a crime punishable by the death penalty.

Returning to my country meant living a double life or facing unimaginable consequences.

When I returned to Riyad in 2011 with my degree in hand and a secret faith in my heart, I began what would be the most dangerous and yet most meaningful seven years of my life.

Externally, I was the same Tariq as always, the successful son, the respectful brother, the exemplary citizen who attended the mosque on Fridays.

But in the privacy of my apartment, with the curtains closed and in complete silence, I read a small Bible in Arabic that I had managed to smuggle into the country by hiding it in my laptop case.

For almost 3 years, I lived my faith in complete solitude.

I prayed silently, studied the word when no one could see me, and felt a desperate thirst to share my faith with someone.

It was then that God put Hassan, my driver, a Filipino worker who had noticed something different in me, in my path.

One day, while taking him to the hospital for a medical checkup, Hassan accidentally dropped his phone.

When I picked it up, I saw a Bible verse on the screen.

Our eyes met, and at that moment, we knew we shared the most dangerous secret one can have in Saudi Arabia.

Through Hassan, I met a small secret group of Christians in Riyad.

There were just 12 of us, mainly Filipino, Indian foreign workers, a couple of Egyptians, and me, the only Saudi by birth.

We met every 2 weeks in different apartments, constantly rotating to avoid suspicion.

The meetings were brief, silent, without musical instruments or loud preaching.

Sometimes we simply read the Bible in whispers and prayed holding hands.

If this testimony is touching your heart, if you feel that God is speaking to you through these words, I invite you to keep listening.

What I am about to share will change your perspective on God’s power in the most hostile places on earth.

Our small community began to grow slowly.

First was Fatima, an Egyptian nurse who worked at the central hospital and had found Christ in Cairo before coming to Arabia.

Then Raj, an Indian computer engineer, joined us.

And against all odds, Leila, a young Saudi woman working as an assistant in the same company as me, started asking questions after noticing something different in the way I treated others.

In 2 years, our community grew from 12 to almost 30 members.

We divided into smaller cells for greater security.

I led a group of seven people who met at my apartment once every 3 weeks.

It was dangerous, but we felt that God was doing something extraordinary in the most difficult land for the gospel.

In March 2018, I received the first warning.

My brother Fisal invited me to dinner at his luxurious mansion.

After his wife and children left, he looked at me intently and said, “Tariq, there are rumors about you.

Dangerous rumors.

They say you meet with foreigners in your house that you have suspicious behaviors.

As your elder brother, I need to know what is happening.

” I lied.

May God forgive me, but I lied.

I told him I was giving private finance classes to some foreign colleagues.

Fisal didn’t seem convinced, but he let it go with an ominous warning.

Remember who you are and what is expected of our family.

Don’t do anything that could stain us.

I should have listened.

I should have been more cautious.

But the fire of sharing Christ burned too intensely in my heart.

The May heat in Riad is like living inside an oven.

But the real fire was growing around us.

The religious police, the Mutawa, had intensified their raids against illegal gatherings.

Two Filipino house churches had been dismantled in the eastern sector of the city.

The detainees being foreigners were deported immediately.

But we all knew that a Saudi would face much worse consequences.

The air was becoming denser each day, not only because of the approaching summer, but also due to the feeling of being constantly watched.

Hassan, my faithful friend and now brother in faith, began to notice vehicles that seem to follow us on our usual routes.

Mr.

Tariq, he told me one afternoon while taking me back from work, I think someone is watching us.

During those days, I received a cryptic message from Ibraim, an Egyptian brother.

The fisherman has gathered his nets in the northern sector.

It was our code to indicate that a Christian cell had been discovered.

The tension was increasing, but so was our determination.

My privileged position as a financial executive and brother of a highranking official gave me some protection, or at least I believed so.

My apartment located in an exclusive area of Riyad seemed like a safe haven compared to the homes of foreign workers which were regularly inspected.

I vividly remember the night of June 15th, 2018.

We had planned a special gathering because Yasmin Raj’s 19-year-old daughter wanted to be baptized.

In Saudi Arabia, performing a Christian baptism is not only illegal, it is considered a direct provocation to the state.

But how could we deny a young woman her wish to publicly proclaim her faith in Christ? We prepared everything with extreme care.

The meeting would be at my apartment using the bathtub for the baptism.

Only five people would attend, Raj and Yasmin, Hassan, Leila, and me.

We had disconnected our phones and left them in another room to avoid any possible tracking.

The blinds were fully closed, and we spoke almost in whispers.

We did not know that that night there were also other observers.

3 days later, Hassan did not show up for work.

He did not respond to my messages or calls.

I felt a knot in my stomach tightening with each passing hour without news of him.

The next day, Ila called me from an unknown number, her voice trembling.

They have taken Hassan.

His apartment was empty with signs that someone had entered by force.

His neighbor said he saw men dressed in civilian clothes taking him away in the middle of the night.

Fear took over me like a paralyzing disease.

Hassan knew all the members of our network.

If they pressured him enough, no, I couldn’t think about that.

Hassan was strong in his faith, but we all have physical limits.

That night, I received a call from my brother Fisal.

His voice was as cold as steel when he said, “We need to talk now.

Come to my office tomorrow at 9:00 sharp.

” It was not an invitation.

It was an order.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” His voice was low, but filled with tension.

“Do you have the slightest idea of the scandal you’ve caused? of how this could destroy not only your life but the entire families.

My heart raced.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Faizal.

He slammed the desk so hard that the objects on it jumped.

Don’t lie to me.

Don’t you dare lie to my face.

He took a deep breath, trying to control himself.

Your driver, that Filipino, has confessed everything.

The meetings, the forbidden books, the baptisms in your apartment.

How could you, Tariq? How could you betray your family, your country, your faith like this? Time seemed to stand still as my brother’s words hit me like stones.

Hassan had spoken.

I didn’t blame him.

I knew the interrogation methods were brutal.

But now everything was exposed.

Fisel, listen to me.

I tried to explain, but he raised a hand to silence me.

I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t want to know the details of your apostasy.

He pronounced the last word as if it were poison.

I have managed to keep this out of official channels for now using my connections.

But I can’t protect you forever, Tariq.

You have two options.

Publicly renounce these foreign beliefs and undergo religious re-education or face the legal consequences of your actions.

And believe me, no surname, no family connection will save you if this goes to religious courts.

Fisal’s proposal was clear.

Deny Christ or face death.

At that moment, Jesus words echoed in my mind.

Whoever wants to save their life will lose it.

But whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.

I cannot renounce what I know is true.

Faizal.

My voice was barely audible, but firm.

I’m sorry.

My brother looked at me as if I were a stranger.

Then may Allah have mercy on your soul because I can no longer do anything for you.

He headed towards the door and opened it.

You have 24 hours to get your affairs in order.

After that, I will not be able to stop what is coming.

If you are feeling the weight of this situation, if you can imagine what it means to choose between your safety and your faith, share this message with those who need to remember that our faith has a cost, but that Christ is worthy of any sacrifice.

The following hours were a whirlwind.

I discreetly contacted the members of our network to warn them.

Some decided to flee immediately, others hid with relatives.

Leila with tears in her eyes told me she would not leave the country because her sick mother needed her.

Raj had already been detained along with his daughter Yasmin.

I packed the essentials, some clothes, my savings in cash, and my small Bible.

I planned to go to Jordan, where I had a contact who could help me apply for asylum.

But just as I was about to leave my apartment, I heard the unmistakable sound of vehicles stopping abruptly at the building’s entrance.

My heart stopped.

I looked out the window and saw three unmarked black vans.

Armed men dressed in civilian clothes were hurriedly getting out.

I didn’t need more information.

They were coming for me.

In those few seconds, I did the only thing I could do.

I prayed.

It wasn’t a formal prayer, just a desperate cry.

Lord Jesus, give me strength for what is to come.

I didn’t try to escape.

I knew it was useless.

When they violently knocked on the door, I simply opened it.

Six men entered like an avalanche, throwing me to the ground and putting handcuffs on me so tightly that I felt them cut into my skin.

They didn’t identify themselves, didn’t read any charges.

In Saudi Arabia, the religious police operate in the shadows.

Tariq Al-Hari, you are under arrest for apostasy, proilitizing, and possession of prohibited materials, one of them finally said while searching my apartment.

They found my Bible hidden among the finance books.

They held it as if it were a contaminated object.

They blindfolded me and pushed me out.

I could feel the gazes of my neighbors, the heavy silence of those who watched without intervening, perhaps even with approval.

Being Christian in Saudi Arabia is not only illegal, it is considered a betrayal of the very national identity.

The ride in the truck was brief, but terrifying.

With my eyes covered and my hands handcuffed, every turn, every sudden break heightened my anxiety.

The men did not speak.

I only heard their breathing and the occasional low voice exchange of instructions.

When we finally stopped, they roughly pulled me out of the vehicle.

The scorching heat of Riad hit my face like a slap.

We walked what seemed to be about 100 m before entering an airond conditioned building.

The change in temperature was so drastic that my skin bristled.

I remained alone for what seemed like hours, although without a clock or windows, it was impossible to know for sure.

Isolation is an effective interrogation technique.

It leaves you alone with your thoughts, your fears, your doubts.

I was beginning to question everything.

Was it worth it? Was I really willing to die for Christ? What would happen to my elderly mother when she found out the truth? The door finally opened and two men entered.

One was dressed in the official uniform of the Saudi police, the other in an impeccable dark suit with an expression that revealed no emotion.

The latter took a seat in front of me while the officer remained standing by the door.

“Tariq Al-Harby,” said the man in the suit, consulting a folder, “graduated with honors in finance from the University of London, respected executive, brother of Fisel Alhari.

” He looked up and looked me directly in the eyes.

And now apa state and Christian missionary.

I did not respond.

What could I say? Your situation is unusual, he continued.

Not many Saudis in your position commit this kind of betrayal.

We usually see this in foreign workers or less educated people.

His tone was academic, as if he were analyzing an interesting case.

Your brother has tried to intervene.

You know, but there are limits even to his influence.

He mentioned my brother with a clear intention to remind me that he had betrayed not only my country and my ancestral religion, but also my family.

We have testimonies, he continued, opening the folder and pulling out some sheets.

Your Filipino driver has been very cooperative.

We have names, dates, meeting places.

We know about the baptisms in your apartment about the materials you distributed.

He placed in front of me a statement signed by Hassan.

My heart sank upon seeing his trembling signature at the bottom of the page.

How much would they have had to do to him to get that confession? Even without your testimony, we had enough, added the interrogator, as if reading my thoughts.

We have been watching you for months, Tariq.

cameras, microphones, informants.

We know everything.

He took my small Bible out of an envelope and placed it on the table.

It was marked with post-it notes and underlined in many places.

Seeing it like that, manipulated by strange hands, gave me an indescribable feeling of violation.

“This is sufficient evidence for the charge of apostasy,” he said, pointing to the Bible.

But what concerns us more is your missionary activity.

Converting others, especially Saudi citizens, is an extremely serious crime.

He leaned forward.

However, your case is delicate.

Your surname, your connections.

We do not want an international scandal.

So we offer you an exit, a public statement renouncing these foreign beliefs, a period of religious re-education, and you can return to your normal life without official charges, without a public trial.

When they left, the lights went out, leaving me in total darkness, without windows, without sounds, only absolute darkness, and the penetrating cold of the air conditioning.

It was like being in a tomb.

In that darkness, my mind started to play tricks on me.

I remembered stories of other persecuted Christians, tortured pasers in Iran, attacked believers, missionaries disappeared in North Korea.

Would I have the same strength as them? Or would I succumb to fear and deny Christ to save my life? If this testimony makes you reflect on the true cost of disciplehip, share it with someone who needs to remember that our faith is not a comfortable pastime, but a radical decision that may require everything.

The hours in darkness turned into an intense spiritual battle.

Every minute was a struggle between the flesh crying out, “Survive,” and the spirit whispering, “Be faithful until death.

” At some point, impossible to know how much time had passed, the door opened again.

I was led, still handcuffed, but without a blindfold, through narrow hallways to a small cell.

When they closed the door behind me, and I heard the click of the locks, the reality of my situation hit me with renewed force.

I was imprisoned for my faith in Christ, something I had always read about other believers experiencing, but never imagined experiencing personally.

I sat on the cot, exhausted physically and emotionally.

It was then that I noticed something carved into the wall beside the bed, a small, crude cross.

Someone had been here before, another follower of Christ.

I ran my fingers over that simple symbol, and for the first time since my arrest, tears flowed freely.

They were not tears of despair, but of a strange communion with all those who had suffered for the name of Jesus throughout history.

You are not alone, that rudimentary cross seemed to whisper.

Others have walked this path before you.

Soon after, I heard a soft tapping on the wall to my right.

At first I thought it was my imagination, but it repeated.

Three short knocks, three long, three short.

The international distress signal SOS.

I responded with the same pattern.

The knock continued, now at a different rhythm.

It took me a moment to understand that it was Morse code.

Slowly, I was able to decipher the message.

Christian.

With my heart pounding, I replied, “Yes, and you?” The response came, Ibraim, Egyptian, 4 months here.

Ibraim, the same Egyptian brother who had warned us about the raids.

Now we were imprisoned in adjoining cells.

Through knocks on the wall, we exchanged basic information.

He had been arrested during a prayer meeting.

His wife and children had been deported to Egypt.

He had been waiting 4 months for trial.

Others here, he told me.

Raj, two cells over.

Raj was also here and his daughter Yasm mean.

I didn’t dare ask.

Over the next three days, I fell into a monotonous routine.

Tasteless food twice a day.

A silent guard who never looked me in the eyes.

Daily interrogations with the same suited man who repeated the same offer.

Renounce Christ or face execution.

and every night conversations in Morse code with Ibraim who became my anchor of sanity.

Ibraim taught me how to survive in that place.

He explained that the guards changed shifts at specific hours, that some were more tolerant than others, that the surveillance cameras had blind spots, but most importantly, he taught me to keep my faith alive without a Bible, reciting verses from memory that I had learned over years as an underground pastor in Egypt.

Memorize this, he told me every night, and then he would transmit entire passages from the scriptures, word for word.

Psalm 23, John 14, Romans 8.

Those words became my daily spiritual nourishment.

On the fourth day, the routine changed.

Instead of the usual interrogator, my brother Fisal entered.

He looked emaciated with pronounced dark circles under his eyes and the tense posture of someone carrying an unbearable weight.

We were left alone in the interrogation room.

Why, Tariq? There was no greeting, only that question filled with frustration and pain.

Why did you do this to us? I haven’t done anything to you, Faizul, I responded softly.

I have found something that gives meaning to my life, something true, something true.

His voice rose in tone.

More true than our parents’ faith, our traditions, our culture.

Are you willing to die for a foreign religion? It’s not a foreign religion, Fisizel.

It’s a personal relationship with God.

I have found forgiveness, purpose, peace, peace.

He almost spat out the word.

Do you call this peace? You are in prison facing a possible execution.

Mother cries day and night.

My position in the ministry is compromised.

Our entire family name is stained by your betrayal.

His pain was palpable and for a moment I felt guilty.

I didn’t want to cause suffering to my family.

I’m sorry for the pain I am causing you, I said.

sincerely, but I cannot give up what I know is true.

Christ has changed my life, Fisel.

He is real.

My brother ran his hand over his face.

A gesture of exhaustion I had seen him do since we were children.

You have been brainwashed, Tariq.

Those westerners confused you during your studies.

This is not you.

On the contrary, brother, I have never been more myself than now.

For the first time in my life, I know who I am and why I am here.

Fisel slammed the table in frustration.

You are here because you committed a crime.

Because you betrayed everything our family stands for.

I am here because I love Jesus more than my own life.

I replied with a calmness that surprised even myself.

And if I must die for it, so be it.

My brother looked at me as if I were a stranger.

Perhaps I was to him now.

He slowly got up.

You have until tomorrow to reconsider.

I have arranged everything for your public declaration of repentance.

It will be broadcast on national television.

You will say that you were deceived, that you have returned to Islam, and this matter will be buried.

His voice slightly cracked.

Please, Tariq, for mother, for our family.

When he left, I felt the weight of his pain on my shoulders.

I loved my family.

The idea of causing them suffering was almost unbearable.

But I had learned from Christ that sometimes true love requires difficult decisions.

That night I couldn’t sleep.

The conversation with Fisel had stirred doubts I thought I had overcome.

What if I just pretended to reconvert? I could keep my faith secret, maybe even escape the country later.

Wouldn’t that be wiser than facing a certain death? I shared these doubts with Ibrahim through our code on the wall.

It’s normal to have doubts, he replied.

Peter denied Jesus, but Christ died for us.

Your words pierced me like a double-edged sword.

Yes, Pedro had denied Christ, but had he not spent the rest of his life repenting for that denial? Had he not finally died, crucified for refusing to deny his Lord a second time? In the darkness of my cell, I fell to my knees and prayed like never before.

Lord Jesus, if I must drink this cup, give me the strength to do it.

Do not leave me alone in this dark hour.

There was no audible response, no heavenly vision, only a deep silence.

But in that silence, I felt a peace that surpasses all understanding, as if invisible arms were holding me.

The next morning, I was taken again to the interrogation room.

“The man in the suit was there, along with a recording team and a Muslim cleric.

” “It is your day of declaration, Tiq,” said the interrogator with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

After this, you will be able to begin your re-education process and eventually return to a normal life.

They presented me with a text to read, a renunciation of the Christian faith, a confession of being deceived by Western influences, and a return to Islam.

The words churned my stomach.

I can’t read this, I said, pushing the paper towards them.

I am not going to deny Christ.

The interrogator lost his smile.

Think very carefully about what you’re doing, Tariq.

This is your last chance.

I thought about it all night.

My answer is no.

If something in this story resonates with your soul, if you feel that God is calling you to a deeper and braver faith, let me know by writing in the comments.

There was a tense moment of silence.

Then the interrogator made a gesture and the technicians began to pack up their equipment.

“Very well,” he finally said.

You have chosen your path.

You will be brought before a religious court tomorrow morning.

May Allah have mercy on you.

As they took me back to my cell, we passed by another room with the door a jar.

For a fleeting moment, I saw Yasmin, Raja’s daughter, sitting with a lost look.

Her face showed obvious signs of trauma, but when our gazes crossed, a spark of recognition lit up her eyes.

I smiled at her briefly before being pushed to keep walking.

That night, Ibrahim and I had our last conversation through the wall.

Caught.

Tomorrow, I told him.

I know.

So do I.

I confessed.

I am afraid.

Normal.

Jesus also in Gethseman.

Do you think we will see heaven tomorrow? There was a long pause before his response.

Maybe.

Or maybe God has other plans.

They led me to the room with my hands shackled behind my back.

Two guards stayed with me, one on each side.

In front of the table, three men in white robes and long beards, watched me with impenetrable expressions.

Tariq Abdullah al-Harbi, the chief judge, a man in his 60s with piercing eyes, began, “You are accused of apostasy, abandoning Islam for Christianity and proitizing, attempting to convert other Muslims.

How do you respond to these charges? It made no sense to lie.

The evidence was overwhelming.

My annotated Bible, the testimonies of detainees, the surveillance recordings.

It is true that I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

I responded clearly.

But I have not forced anyone to change their faith.

I simply shared what has transformed my life.

The judge on the left, younger and with more aggressive gestures, intervened.

Do you admit that you have abandoned the true faith, that you have betrayed the teachings of the prophet, peace be upon him? I respect Islam and the culture in which I grew up.

I responded carefully, but I have found the truth in Christ.

The third judge, an elderly man with a tired appearance, spoke for the first time.

Do you understand the gravity of your actions according to Sharia law? I understand that apostasy is punishable by death according to the current interpretation of Islamic law in our country.

Yes.

And yet you persist in this foreign belief, asked the chief judge.

I took a deep breath.

This was the moment of truth, literally.

Yes, I persist.

Christ is my Lord and Savior.

The three judges exchanged glances.

They did not need to retreat to deliberate.

The verdict was predetermined by the law they applied.

Tariq Abdullah Al-Harbi, the chief judge, solemnly pronounced, “This court finds you guilty of apostasy and proitizing.

The sentence, according to Sharia law, is death.

I was waiting for these words.

I had mentally prepared myself for them, but hearing them officially pronounced made my heart race and my legs tremble.

One thing is to accept the possibility of dying for Christ.

Quite another is to face the imminent certainty.

The sentence will be carried out in 3 days at dawn in the public square.

The judge continued, “Until then you are allowed a period of reflection.

If during this period you renounce your apostasy and return to Islam, the sentence could be commuted.

That last phrase was the crack they left open, the final temptation.

Until the last moment, the system wanted my surrender, not my blood.

They returned me to a different cell, deeper in the prison complex, more isolated.

There was no window, only a dim light that never went out.

I could not communicate with Ibraim or any other prisoner.

It was just me and God alone in that antichamber of death.

The hours dragged on with agonizing slowness.

I tried to pray, but sometimes the words escaped me.

I tried to remember the verses Ibrahim had taught me, but often my mind went blank.

Fear, that insidious companion constantly whispered in my ear, “You can still save yourself.

Just say the words, “God knows your heart.

He will understand.

” On the afternoon of the second day, I received an unexpected visit.

My mother, she entered, leaning on a cane, her fragile figure even more diminished by pain.

A guard accompanied her, maintaining a respectful distance.

“Mom,” I whispered, trying to hold back tears.

She slowly approached, her eyes reened from crying.

She sat in the only available chair facing me.

Why, Tariq? Her voice was barely audible.

Why are you doing this to us? Why are you doing this to yourself? I don’t want to cause you pain, Mom, I replied, kneeling before her and taking her hands in mine.

But I have found something, someone that has completely changed my life.

Is it worth dying for? Leaving me alone in my old age? Her words were like daggers.

Mom, if you knew what I have experienced, you would understand.

I have found a love that surpasses everything I knew before, a purpose beyond this life.

She shook her head, unable to understand.

Your brother says you can save yourself that you only need to read a statement.

Do it, my son, for me.

No matter what you truly believe in your heart, just say the words.

Temptation had never been as strong as at that moment.

Seeing my mother suffering, knowing I could ease it with simple words.

I can’t, Mom, I finally said, tears running down my face.

It would be denying the most important truth I have known.

It would be denying the one who has given me eternal life.

My mother withdrew her hands from mine as if she no longer recognized her own son.

Then may Allah have mercy on your soul because I can no longer recognize you.

She got up with difficulty and called the guard to help her out.

At the door, she turned one last time.

“Your father died believing you were a good Muslim.

I am glad he did not live to see this.

” When the door closed behind her, I fell to my knees, uncontrollably sobbing.

The pain was indescribable.

I had expected physical torture, but this torment of the soul was infinitely worse.

“Why, God!” I shouted in the solitude of my cell.

Why does it have to be like this? Why must I choose between you and the people I love? There was no audible response, only the echo of my own voice against the concrete walls.

If you have ever felt that you must choose between pleasing God or pleasing men, share this message with someone facing a difficult decision for their faith.

That night I did not sleep.

My mind was trapped in an endless cycle of doubts, memories, and regrets.

Was all of this a mistake? Had I confused my own rebellion with a genuine spiritual experience? At dawn, on the third day, my last day, according to the sentence, a different god appeared with my food tray.

He was a young man, perhaps in his 30s, with a less severe face than the others.

When he handed me the tray, our eyes briefly met, and I saw something unusual in his gaze.

Not contempt, but curiosity, perhaps even compassion.

“Is it really worth dying for him?” he asked softly, making sure no one else could hear him.

“The question surprised me so much that I almost dropped the tray.

It was the first time someone inside the prison showed anything other than contempt for my faith.

” Yes, I replied without hesitation.

He died for me first.

The guard nodded slightly and turned to leave, but stopped at the door.

My name is Ysef.

I will be on duty tonight.

At midnight, as announced, Ysef returned.

This time, he entered my cell and closed the door behind him.

“We don’t have much time,” he said softly, pulling something out of his tunic.

“A key.

” “What are you doing?” I asked, confused.

Freeing you, he replied as he untied my handcuffs.

I have disabled the cameras in this sector for maintenance.

We have exactly 7 minutes before the system automatically restarts.

I couldn’t believe what was happening.

Why are you risking your life for me? Ysef looked at me intensely.

My sister married a Filipino Christian.

He told her about Jesus and she told me, “I have been seeking answers for years, reading in secret, questioning.

” And then you arrived.

A Saudi educated from a good family willing to die for Christ.

I had to know if it was real.

It’s real, I affirmed.

More real than anything else.

I know now.

He smiled briefly.

There’s a car waiting for you at the service entrance.

The driver is my brother-in-law.

He will take you to the Jordan border.

You have fake documents in this envelope.

He handed me a small package.

Memorize your new identity during the trip.

Everything was happening too fast.

But they will discover you.

They will execute you in my place.

Not if we do this right.

He took out a uniform identical to his from a bag.

Put this on.

You will come out as a guard finishing his shift.

I will report your escape tomorrow morning once you are crossing the border.

I will say you escaped during my break as I quickly changed.

Ysef continued explaining the system is corrupt.

No one will admit that a high-profile prisoner escaped under their watch.

They will probably report that you confessed and were released or that you died during an interrogation.

Anyway, they won’t look for you for too long.

it would admit their failure.

I adjusted the turban that completed the disguise, amazed by the meticulousness of the plan.

This is no coincidence, Tariq, said Ysef as he guided me through deserted hallways.

God is giving you a second chance, not to save your life, but to share your testimony with the world.

At the service door, as I had said, a plain car was waiting with a Filipino man at the wheel.

Yousef hugged me briefly.

Go with God, brother,” he whispered.

“When all this calms down, I will find a way to join you.

” “Thank you,” I replied, speechless to express my gratitude.

“May God protect you.

One last thing,” Yousef added.

“Your friend Ibrahim and three others, including Raj, will be transferred tomorrow to another center.

I managed to get them assigned to a less severe prison.

The girl Yasmin has already been deported to India with her mother.

They are safe.

With that reassuring information, I got into the car and we began our journey to freedom.

The journey from Riyad to the Jordanian border is approximately 1,300 km through one of the most inhospitable deserts on the planet.

Under normal circumstances, it takes about 13 hours of continuous driving.

But our circumstances were far from normal.

Manuel Ysef’s Filipino brother-in-law was driving with the concentration of someone who knows they are transporting a valuable and dangerous cargo at the same time.

He explained that we should avoid main roads and checkpoints, which meant taking secondary routes and desert paths, doubling the travel time.

We have extra food, water, and fuel.

he assured me as we left Riyad’s lights behind.

And above all, we have God with us.

During the first hours, we traveled in silence.

I was still processing everything that had happened.

The dizzying transition from condemned to death to fugitive.

I reviewed the documents Ysef had given me.

a Jordanian passport in the name of Fared Khalil, a merchant from Aman with my photograph but completely different personal details.

As the sun began to peak over the horizon, tinting the desert with golden and reddish tones, Manuel finally spoke about how he had become involved in all this.

I met Samira, Ysef’s sister, when I was working as an IT technician at a hospital in Riyad, he explained.

She was a nurse there.

We fell in love, but we knew it was impossible for a Christian Filipino to openly marry a Saudi Muslim.

They planned to escape together to the Philippines.

But before they could do so, Samira wanted to learn more about Manuel’s faith.

I started secretly reading the New Testament to her.

She asked so many questions.

And one day, she simply said she believed that Jesus was the true way.

Finally, they managed to leave the country with the help of an underground network of believers, the same network that was now helping me.

Ysef had kept in secret contact with his sister and gradually had become open to hearing about Christ.

When Ysef heard about your case, he contacted us immediately, continued Manuel.

He said that God was showing him that he should help you, that your testimony was too important to be silenced.

At noon, we stopped in a remote area to rest briefly, stretch our legs, and eat something.

The heat was scorching, the sun, an unrelenting hammer over the desert.

As we shared a simple lunch of bread and cheese, Manuel received a call on a satellite phone.

Her expression changed immediately.

“They discovered your escape earlier than expected,” he said after hanging up.

“They have set alerts at all borders.

They are looking for a lone Saudi, but also for any suspicious vehicle.

The original plan was to cross into Jordan through a minor border crossing where Ysef had contacts that would facilitate the process with my false documents.

But now that plan seemed too risky.

We have to change our route, decided Manuel.

We will go north towards Iraq.

I know people in Basra who can help us cross into Kuwait and from there get a flight to a safe country.

The new route was even longer and more dangerous, skirting the border with Kuwait and venturing into remote regions where border patrols were scarce but unpredictable.

As the afternoon progressed, the sky began to change, turning from a bright blue to a strange yellow.

Sandstorm, murmured Manuel, worried.

And it looks like it will be a big one.

In the desert, sandstorms are not mere inconveniences.

They are deadly threats.

They can reduce visibility to zero in seconds, completely disorient travelers, and bury entire vehicles within minutes.

We must find shelter quickly, said Manuel, speeding over the uneven terrain.

There is a set of rock formations a few kilometers from here.

We could take refuge there until the storm passes.

The wind began to whip up whirlwinds of sand around us.

The sky darkened moment by moment as if the day was turning into night prematurely.

The car started to be hit by increasingly strong gusts, dangerously veering off course.

Come on.

Come on.

Manuel was struggling with the steering wheel as visibility rapidly decreased.

We’re close.

I can see them.

The rocks are just his voice cut off when a particularly violent gust lifted the vehicle on one side, causing us to lose control.

The car skidded, spun, and finally came to a sudden stop after hitting something solid.

If you are listening to this testimony and feel that God is speaking to you, share this message with those who need to remember that the Lord never abandons us in the midst of our personal storms.

The impact was violent.

My head hit the side window and for a moment everything went black.

When I regained consciousness, the outside world had completely disappeared.

I could only see sand fiercely hitting the car windows, creating a deafening sound like millions of tiny bullets.

Manuel, I called, turning towards the driver’s seat.

He was conscious, but bleeding profusely from a wound on his forehead.

The steering wheel had been deformed by the impact.

I’m fine,” he replied with difficulty, but the car is not.

He tried to start the engine, but it only produced a muffled sound.

We were stranded in the middle of one of the worst sandstorms I had ever seen in my life, in a remote desert, being searched for by Saudi authorities with no way to communicate or move.

“The situation couldn’t be more desperate.

” Manuel, we have to find shelter, I said, trying to stay calm.

The car won’t protect us much longer from this storm.

I improvised a bandage for his head with part of my tunic.

Then we gathered the supplies we could.

Water, some food, the satellite phone, and prepared to leave.

The rocks must be nearby, Manuel said, vaguely pointing forward.

We hit something solid.

It’s probably part of the formation we were looking for.

Opening the door was almost impossible due to the wind pressure.

When we finally succeeded, the sand hit us like shrapnel, forcing us to cover our eyes and mouths with pieces of cloth.

We moved blindly, clinging to each other so as not to separate, moving in the direction we believed was correct.

Each step was a battle against the fierce wind.

The sand got into our eyes, noses, and mouths, making breathing difficult.

The heat was suffocating despite the darkness created by the storm.

I began to doubt whether we could survive.

It was then that something inexplicable happened.

Amidst that impenetrable curtain of sand, I distinguished a faint light, a glow that should not have been visible under those conditions.

It was as if someone was holding a flashlight at a certain distance.

“Do you see that?” I shouted to Manuel above the roar of the wind.

“Yes,” he replied, equally astonished.

“A light!” We headed towards her, stumbling, falling, and getting up again.

The light seemed to move slightly, as if inviting us to follow it.

With each step we took towards it, I felt the wind diminish a little, as if we were entering the eye of the storm.

Finally, the light led us to what we were looking for, a rocky formation with an opening resembling a small cave.

We crawled inside, exhausted and disoriented, but alive.

Once safe, I tried to see the source of that mysterious light, but it had disappeared.

Only the natural darkness of the cave remained, faintly illuminated by the little light filtering through the storm.

“What was that?” Manuel asked, breathing heavily.

I don’t know, I answered honestly.

But it wasn’t natural.

Manuel smiled despite his wound.

In the Philippines, we have stories about angels appearing as lights to guide lost travelers.

The idea didn’t seem so far-fetched at that moment.

After all, hadn’t God been intervening miraculously since the beginning of this odyssey? Hadn’t he placed Ysef exactly at the right moment? Hadn’t he prepared this escape route when all the doors seemed closed? We spent the night in that cave, tending to Manuel’s wounds and rationing our supplies.

The storm continued howling outside, but we felt strangely safe, as if that small cavity in the rock was not only a physical refuge, but also a spiritual one.

At dawn, the storm had subsided enough to allow us to go out.

The landscape was unrecognizable, completely transformed by the sand.

Our car was almost completely covered with only the roof barely visible above the surface.

We are on foot now, I noted the obvious.

What’s the plan? Manuel consulted a small GPS that he had managed to save.

The border with Iraq is about 80 km in that direction.

With our water supplies, we could try to reach a forward post that I know about 30 km from here.

There are bedawin communities that could help us.

We started walking when the sun was still low, taking advantage of the cooler hours.

The desert after a storm has a breathtaking beauty.

Freshly formed dunes that stretched like frozen waves.

The sand so smooth it seems polished by invisible hands.

As we painfully advanced under the increasingly intense sun, Manuel shared more of his story, how he had gone from being a foreign worker in Saudi Arabia to part of an underground network helping persecuted Christians.

When we escaped with Samira, we promised to help others, she explained.

It’s dangerous, but how could we enjoy our freedom knowing that brothers and sisters are suffering? Her courage and dedication humbled me.

I had been a secret Christian for years, afraid of the consequences, sharing my faith only in controlled environments.

Manuel, on the other hand, constantly risked his life for people he didn’t even know.

It was during that break when we heard the sound, engines approaching vehicles, whispered Manuel, suddenly alert.

And they are coming in this direction.

We peaked cautiously from our shelter.

In the distance, a cloud of dust revealed the approach of several off-road vehicles speeding across the desert.

We couldn’t tell if they were border patrols, traffickers, or simple bedins, but in our situation, any encounter was potentially dangerous.

We must hide, I whispered, desperately searching for a place to conceal ourselves in that exposed landscape.

There’s nowhere, Manuel replied resignedly.

We are in open terrain.

If they see us and decide to pursue, we won’t have a chance.

The vehicles were approaching rapidly.

Now we could distinguish that they were three white off-road vehicles, typical of Saudi border patrols.

My heart raced.

They had followed our trail.

Or perhaps the sandstorm had revealed something that caught their attention.

We have two options, said Manuel.

Try to run which is useless or face them with our false story.

You are Fared Khalil, a Jordanian merchant.

I am your Filipino guide.

We got lost in the storm.

Stay calm and let me speak first.

I nodded, although I knew our chances were minimal.

The fake documents might work at a routine border check, but they wouldn’t withstand detailed scrutiny, especially if they were already looking specifically for a fugitive Saudi.

The vehicle stopped about 200 m from us.

A group of armed men disembarked and began to walk towards us on foot.

They were too far away to distinguish their faces or uniforms, but their disciplined formation suggested military or police training.

Lord Jesus, I prayed silently.

If this is the moment to meet with you, give me the courage to face it with dignity and protect Manuel who risked everything to help me.

Just as the men had advanced about halfway towards us, something extraordinary happened.

A deafening roar filled the air, and a stream of sand began to rise between us and our pursuers.

Within seconds, a whirlwind of sand formed, rapidly growing into a spinning column that extended into the sky.

It was not the great storm from the night before, but a more localized and sudden phenomenon, a sand tornado, or what the Bedawins call the desert jin.

These natural phenomena are known in the desert, but their appearance at that very moment and specific place defied all probability.

The armed men stopped, clearly surprised by the phenomenon.

The sand tornado grew, moving erratically between them and us, forcing them to retreat towards their vehicles.

“It’s our chance,” shouted Manuel, pulling my arm.

“Run east.

There’s a rocky valley a few kilometers away that will give us cover.

” We ran like never before, taking advantage of the providential distraction.

The sand tornado continued to grow, spreading out and effectively blocking the vision of our pursuers.

We could hear confused shouts and the roar of engines as they tried to reorganize.

We reached the valley Manuel had mentioned, a narrow passage between rock formations, eroded by millennia of wind.

We entered it, winding between the rocks until we found a small cave where we collapsed, exhausted but alive.

“Did you see that?” gasped Manuel with eyes shining with wonder.

“The tornado? It appeared exactly when we needed it, exactly where we needed it.

I saw it, I replied, equally amazed.

First the light in the storm, now this.

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