Sometimes we received letters from people we had never met, believers who said that hearing about a Saudi woman who had found Jesus gave them courage to keep standing firm.

We never shared my full name or face publicly.

I always appeared in shadow or under a different name when speaking online.

I didn’t need to be seen to be used.

My story was not about fame.

It was about faith.

The power of testimony is not in the storyteller, but in the God who writes the story.

A few years later, David and I moved to a small town near the coast to lead a local fellowship made up of former Muslims and Arab-speaking Christians.

Every Sunday, we gathered in a rented hall, worshiping in Arabic, English, and Dutch.

The sound was like heaven, different tongues united in one spirit.

Many came with fear in their eyes, but as they listened, hope began to grow.

Sometimes new believers would ask me, “Sister Ammani, how did you keep your faith in prison?” I always answered, “It wasn’t my strength.

It was his presence.

When you have Jesus, even the darkest cell becomes holy ground.

” Their faces would soften as they realized that the same Jesus who had walked into my prison could walk into their pain, too.

Our life was simple.

We didn’t travel much, and we avoided attention.

But our impact reached further than we ever planned.

Through online fellowship groups, I began mentoring women from across the Middle East.

Some in hiding, others in exile.

They would write to me at night, asking for prayer or advice.

Many told me they had dreams of Jesus just as I once did.

I guided them gently, reminding them that faith is not about religion, but about relationship.

Each time a woman wrote back saying, “I have accepted Jesus.

” I cried tears of joy.

It was in those quiet unseen victories that I saw the true purpose of my life unfold.

Sometimes I still spoke to small church groups or Bible colleges, but always under the understanding that my story was shared in private settings, not recorded or publicized.

I often told them, “What matters is not who I am, but who he is.

I was lost and he found me.

I was condemned and he set me free.

I would end every talk with the same question that had changed my life.

What is Jesus worth to you? Some would bow their heads in silence.

Others would whisper through tears, everything.

In those moments, I knew that God was still using my voice to reach hearts, just as he had promised in that prison cell years ago.

Now years later, I live quietly near the Hague with David.

Our days are filled with ministry, prayer, and simple joys.

We cook together, walk along the beach, and host small gatherings of believers in our home.

Sometimes at night, I stand by the window and look at the stars, remembering the deserts of Al- Medina, where my journey began.

I think of the palace, the prison, the escape, and every step in between.

My story could have ended on an executioner’s blade.

But instead, it became a song of redemption.

I whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.

” Knowing that every breath I take is proof of his mercy.

If someone had told me years ago that I would lose everything and yet gain more than I ever dreamed, I would not have believed them.

But I now know that the greatest treasure is not wealth or comfort.

It is the peace of knowing that I am loved unconditionally.

My name, my past, my title, all of it fades compared to the joy of belonging to Christ.

I once lived for the approval of men, but now I live for the glory of God.

My testimony is not a story of loss, but of victory.

For if Jesus could rescue a Saudi princess from a prison cell, there is nothing in your life he cannot redeem.

So wherever you are reading or hearing my story, remember this.

No one is too far gone.

No heart too lost.

No darkness too deep for the light of Christ.

He still calls.

He still saves.

And he still performs miracles.

I am living proof of that truth.

And as long as I have breath, I will keep telling it.

Not to make my name known, but to make his name known.

Because once you meet Jesus, you will never be the same again.

 

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