My name is Mariam Al Farukq.

I was 27 years old when my life changed forever in the burning desert outside Riyad.

I wasn’t a princess.

I wasn’t wealthy.

I was a refugee who had escaped the war in Gaza with nothing but my mother and the clothes on my back.

I had been a devoted Muslim my entire life.

But when I chose the Bible over the Quran, the Sharia court sentenced me to be buried alive.

What happened next was something no human being could explain.

I had fled one war only to walk into another.

A battle for my soul.

And just when the earth closed over me, Jesus himself intervened.

I was born in the neighborhood of Alcha, one of the oldest and most crowded areas in Gaza, where families lived so close that you could hear your neighbors kettle whistling at sunrise.

I grew up in a traditional Muslim home where my mother taught me to recite the Quran before I turned 8.

And my father, a carpenter, always reminded me that Allah sees everything we do.

My childhood was not filled with luxury, but it was filled with community, love, and the belief that our faith would carry us through anything.

Even when electricity came only a few hours a day or when water was too salty to drink, I still believed Gaza was where I belonged.

I never imagined how quickly everything would change.

Growing up in Gaza teaches you two things early in life.

How to endure hardship and how to stay close to your family.

I remember walking to the Al Aar University training center where I worked as a part-time translator, passing the same destroyed buildings that had been standing like broken teeth since I was a child.

War was not new to us.

It was like a season that returned every few years, bringing fear, destruction, and nights when sleep felt impossible.

But despite everything, we survived because we held on to hope.

My mother used to say, “Mariam, Allah tests the strongest people with the hardest challenges.

” And I believed her.

I was not a perfect Muslim, but I prayed five times a day, fasted during Ramadan, and trusted that Allah would protect us.

Nothing inside me prepared me for the day when the biggest war of my lifetime began.

It was early morning when the first explosions shook our neighborhood on October 7th, 2023.

I was sweeping the small courtyard outside our home when the sound slammed through the air like the sky itself had cracked open.

Within minutes, pillars of smoke rose across Gaza City, and people rushed into the streets, screaming and calling the names of their children.

I grabbed my phone and saw the breaking news.

The war between Israel and Gaza had escalated in a way we had never seen before.

I ran inside to find my mother crying and my little cousins hiding under the table.

The loudspeakers from the mosques warned everyone to stay indoors.

But our apartment windows were already rattling violently from nearby strikes.

I held my mother’s hands and whispered, “Allah will protect us.

” But even I could feel fear tightening around my heart.

This war was nothing like the others we had survived.

Days turned into weeks.

And Gaza became unrecognizable.

Streets I grew up walking turned into piles of concrete.

The market where I used to buy bread from Abu Khaled was gone, flattened into dust.

Every day we heard about families wiped out in seconds.

My aunt’s home in Bay Hanoon was destroyed, killing her husband and leaving her three children buried under rubble for hours before neighbors could rescue them.

Food became scarce and clean water felt like a miracle.

We lined up for hours just to fill small jugs from public taps, and sometimes soldiers blocked the way, leaving us with nothing.

Nights were the worst.

We gathered in one room, hoping that if the building collapsed, at least we would die together.

My younger sister kept asking, “Mariam, will this end?” And I had no answer.

All I knew was that staying in Gaza was becoming a death sentence.

The turning point came the night an air strike hit the building two houses away from ours.

The explosion threw me across the room, and for a moment, I could not hear anything except the ringing in my ears.

When the dust settled, my mother was bleeding from her forehead.

And our entire neighborhood was filled with screams.

I stepped outside and saw fire everywhere.

The kind of destruction that steals your breath away.

My mother grabbed my arm, her voice shaking, and said, “Mariam, we must leave before we end up under the ground.

” That was the moment I realized Gaza was no longer a place where we could live.

I felt guilt mixed with terror as I helped my mother pack a small bag with our IDs, clothes, and the Quran she always kept near her bed.

Leaving the land I loved felt like tearing out a piece of my soul.

Reaching the Rafa border crossing was a nightmare I will never forget.

Thousands of people crowded the roads, each one desperate to escape the bombardment.

Mothers carried babies with dustcovered faces.

Old men leaned on canes and children cried for water that was impossible to find.

The journey that normally took 15 minutes took nearly 8 hours because the roads were destroyed and people were moving like waves of panic.

Everyone knew that the crossing might open for only a few hours or not at all.

When we finally arrived, Egyptian soldiers stood behind fences calling out names of those allowed to pass that day.

My name was not on the list.

My mother’s name was not on the list.

But a distant relative who worked with aid groups recognized us and quietly whispered, “Come with me.

” In that moment, I realized Allah had sent us a lifeline.

Crossing into Egypt felt surreal, like stepping into another world.

The sounds of war faded behind us, replaced by the hum of cars and the chatter of people going about their daily lives.

For the first time in weeks, I felt air that wasn’t filled with smoke.

We were placed in a temporary shelter in Irish, and although the beds were thin and the food simple, it felt like safety.

My mother cried the first night thanking Allah for saving our lives.

I tried to sleep but every time I closed my eyes I saw images of destroyed homes, burning buildings and children I used to teach lying motionless under rubble.

I knew we could not stay in Egypt for long.

There was no work and refugees were being moved out quickly.

When I heard that Saudi Arabia was accepting some Gazan refugees, I felt a strange mixture of fear and hope.

Arriving in Saudi Arabia was like stepping onto another planet.

We landed at King Khaled International Airport in Riyad, where officials took our documents and directed us to a refugee processing area.

Everything felt strict, controlled, and overwhelmingly different from Gaza.

Women covered completely in black abayas moved silently through the halls and everywhere I looked there were signs reminding people to follow Islamic rules.

I had always been Muslim but Saudi Arabia practiced Islam in a way that felt heavier, stricter, and more intense.

Still, I reminded myself that this was better than dying under bombs.

We were later transported to a refugee accommodation center on the outskirts of the city where we shared a small room with two other women from Kunis.

Life there was quiet, almost too quiet.

I had survived war, but now I faced an entirely different kind of loneliness.

In those early weeks in Saudi Arabia, I struggled to adjust.

I missed Gaza so deeply that even the smell of the dusty wind made me cry.

I missed the crowded streets, the voices of children playing football, and the sound of the muazine calling from the mosque near our home.

Here in Riyad, the mosques were grand and beautiful, but everything felt distant.

I felt like a guest who did not belong, living in a place where any mistake could bring serious punishment.

I tried to follow every rule carefully because I knew Saudi Arabia did not tolerate errors, especially from refugees.

My mother encouraged me to stay strong and trust in Allah’s plan.

She believed our suffering was temporary, that Allah would open a door for us soon.

I wanted to believe her, but something inside me felt unsettled, as if my life was about to change in a way I could never predict.

Despite the discomfort and overwhelming culture differences, I told myself every day that I was blessed to be alive.

Many of my friends never made it out of Gaza.

Some were still trapped under constant bombardment, others missing, and some confirmed dead.

I would wake up in the middle of the night, shaking, hearing explosions in my dreams.

I often walked outside the refugee center just to breathe cool air and remind myself that I was no longer in Gaza.

At this time, I still believed firmly in Islam.

Still prayed five times a day.

Still recited the Quran whenever I felt fear.

My life felt fragile, like a thin thread could snap at any moment.

I had escaped a physical war, but I had no idea that I was walking into a spiritual battle far more unexpected.

I could not imagine that my journey in Saudi Arabia would lead me to a decision that would nearly cost my life.

My life in Saudi Arabia slowly settled into a routine, though it was a routine filled with uncertainty.

Every morning, I woke up in the small room I shared with my mother and two other Palestinian women, and I would listen to the sounds of buses outside carrying workers to different parts of Riyad.

My mother tried to find small cleaning jobs through people she met at the refugee center.

While I spent most days helping organize lists and paperwork for new arrivals.

Even though life seemed calm on the surface, I still felt a heaviness inside me.

The quiet streets, the strict rules, and the fear of doing something wrong made me feel trapped in a new way.

I was grateful for safety, but I missed the familiarity of Gaza so much that sometimes it felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I prayed every day, hoping Allah would help me find peace.

The refugee center received volunteers from different countries, usually nurses, translators, or aid workers who came to check on our needs.

One of them was a woman named Isabella, a medical volunteer from Spain who often visited with boxes of basic supplies.

She was gentle and soft-spoken, and she treated us with kindness I didn’t always see in other workers.

She would ask simple questions like, “How are you feeling today, Miam?” And she listened with genuine interest.

Her presence made the long days feel a little lighter.

One afternoon when she came to check my mother’s blood pressure, I noticed she was wearing a small silver necklace with a cross.

I had seen Christians before in Gaza, especially among foreign aid workers, but in Saudi Arabia, you rarely saw anyone openly wearing Christian symbols.

It surprised me that she still had it on.

A few days later, I was helping Isabella carry some medical boxes to a storage room behind the center.

As we placed the boxes on the shelf, a book slipped out of one of the bags and fell to the floor.

When I reached down to pick it up, my heart almost stopped.

It was a Bible.

I froze with the book in my hand.

Suddenly, terrified someone might walk in and see me holding it.

Even touching a Bible in Saudi Arabia could cause trouble, especially for a refugee with no protection.

I quickly handed it back to her, whispering, “You should hide this.

It’s dangerous.

She smiled gently and said, “I know.

That’s why I only bring it when I feel someone needs hope.

” I didn’t understand what she meant, but her words stayed with me long after she left that day.

That night, I lay awake thinking about the book I had seen.

I had grown up hearing many warnings about the Bible in Gaza.

Imams always said the Bible was corrupted, changed by men, and full of lies meant to mislead Muslims.

My father used to tell me, “If you ever see a Bible, avoid it.

It carries confusion, not truth.

” So why did Isabella carry it like something precious? Why did she speak of it as if it held hope? The more I tried to push the thought away, the more it followed me.

Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered the soft smile on her face and the delicate way she held the book.

I didn’t know why, but something inside me stirred with curiosity I couldn’t explain.

Like a whisper I didn’t choose to hear.

3 days passed before I saw Isabella again.

She returned to check on some of the older refugees and asked me to help her sort medications in the storage room.

As we worked, she suddenly looked at me in a quiet, careful way and said, “Miriam, I brought something for you.

” My heart skipped a beat as she reached into her bag and pulled out the very same blackbound Bible I had seen earlier.

She held it gently, almost reverently, as if it were alive.

“You looked at this with fear last time,” she said.

But I want to give it to you, not to change your religion, but to give you comfort.

You have suffered so much.

Maybe these words can help your heart.

I shook my head immediately, whispering, “No, I can’t.

If anyone sees me with that, I will be in trouble.

” But she simply placed it on the table and said, “Take it only if you want to.

” I stood there staring at the book, frozen.

My hands trembled as I reached towards it without meaning to.

I quickly pulled back, afraid of what it meant.

I knew I shouldn’t take it.

I knew it was forbidden.

But something inside me, something I didn’t understand, kept pulling me closer.

In Gaza, we were taught that Jesus was only a prophet.

Issa Iban Mariam, honored, but human.

Yet a small part of me wondered what Christians believed, wondered what they saw in him that made them risk everything to keep this book close.

When Isabella left the room, she didn’t take the Bible with her.

She simply looked back at me once and said, “You don’t have to read it, but you can hold it.

” Sometimes holding hope feels like breathing again.

I waited until I was sure no one would come.

Then I reached for the Bible with shaking hands and slipped it inside my bag.

I felt my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

That night I hid it under my mattress, terrified someone might find it.

I didn’t open it.

I didn’t dare.

But every time I tried to sleep, I felt the book under me like a physical weight pulling at my thoughts.

My mind kept asking questions I didn’t want to ask.

What if it wasn’t corrupted? What if there was something inside it that could answer the emptiness I felt? I told myself I was only curious because I was overwhelmed and lonely.

But deep down it felt like something was calling me.

I prayed to Allah to remove the curiosity.

But the feeling didn’t leave.

The next night when everyone in the room was asleep, I pulled the Bible out and held it in my hands.

My heart was shaking with fear and I kept listening for footsteps outside the door.

If a guard or staff member saw me, I could be reported.

I knew stories of people punished for even owning Christian materials.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

I opened it slowly, the thin pages whispering against each other.

The first words I saw were, “Let not your heart be troubled.

” I froze.

It felt like someone had spoken directly to me.

I turned to another page and read about Jesus healing the brokenhearted, comforting the weary.

The words were simple yet powerful, unlike anything I expected.

I felt something warm inside me, something peaceful, something that didn’t feel like fear.

Each night after that, I read a little more.

I didn’t understand everything, but the words about Jesus, his kindness, his forgiveness, his love felt strangely familiar, almost like something I had always needed but never knew existed.

I began feeling guilty, as if I was betraying Islam.

I would pray five times a day and then secretly read the Bible at night.

My soul felt divided.

One half clinging to the teachings I grew up with, the other half drawn to this new piece I couldn’t explain.

I started dreaming about a man dressed in white.

Someone whose face I couldn’t see clearly, but whose presence made me feel calm.

In the dreams, he didn’t speak, but I always woke up with a sense of warmth and safety I hadn’t felt since leaving Gaza.

The more I read, the more confused I became.

I had learned all of my life that Christians believed lies.

Yet, the words in the Bible didn’t feel like lies.

They felt gentle, comforting, and strangely alive.

I kept telling myself I needed to stop.

I needed to throw the book away.

But every night, my hands reached for it again.

Sometimes I cried while reading because the words touched parts of my heart I didn’t even know were wounded.

I found verses saying God was close to the brokenhearted, that he listened to cries, that he loved people so deeply he sent someone to save them.

I didn’t understand everything, but I felt something real inside the words.

I didn’t tell my mother about the Bible.

I couldn’t.

She was still trying to rebuild her strength, still praying daily, still holding on to the Quran for comfort.

If she knew, she would beg me to burn it immediately.

I kept the book hidden inside a folded sweater at the back of my bag.

And every time I returned to the room, I checked anxiously to make sure no one had touched my things.

The fear of being discovered grew every day, but the pull toward the Bible grew even stronger.

It was like trying to hide a flame inside my chest.

Beautiful, but dangerous.

A week later, something happened that changed everything.

I dreamt again of the man in white, but this time the dream was clearer.

I was standing in a dark desert, feeling lost and terrified.

Suddenly, a light appeared in the distance, and the man in white walked toward me.

I still couldn’t see his face, but he stretched his hand towards mine.

When I touched it, I felt a warmth so deep it made me fall to my knees.

In the dream, I felt like someone loved me, truly loved me, for the first time in my life.

When I woke up, tears were on my face and I whispered without thinking, “Who are you?” The dream left me shaken for days.

I tried to focus on my daily tasks, helping new refugees settle in and translating for those who couldn’t speak Arabic well, but my mind kept drifting back to the dream.

I tried to pray the way I used to, reading verses from the Quran, asking Allah to remove the confusion from my heart.

But every time I knelt, I felt an emptiness I couldn’t understand.

For the first time in my life, the prayers felt like words spoken into silence.

I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I knew my soul was changing in a way I couldn’t control.

As the days passed, I felt torn between two worlds.

On the outside, I was the same refugee girl from Gaza, quiet, respectful, and cautious.

I followed every rule, dressed modestly, and avoided any attention.

But inside, something new was forming, something delicate and frightening.

Each night I found myself waiting for everyone to fall asleep so I could open the Bible again.

I read slowly, carefully, afraid to skip even a single word.

Sometimes I felt guilty afterward, whispering a stag over and over, begging for forgiveness.

But other times I felt a piece that made the guilt fade for a moment.

One night, as I was reading silently in bed with my blanket pulled up to hide the light from my phone, I found a verse that said, “Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

” I closed my eyes and whispered, “I am weary.

” At that moment, I didn’t feel like a Muslim or a Christian.

I felt like a broken person searching for something real, something strong enough to hold me together after everything I had survived.

I didn’t know what journey I was beginning, but I knew my heart was opening in a way I had never experienced before.

I didn’t tell anyone about the dreams or the feelings that were growing inside me.

In Saudi Arabia, such things were dangerous.

People talked about apostasy in whispers, as if even speaking the word could bring trouble.

I avoided drawing attention to myself and kept my Bible hidden, reading only when I was sure it was safe.

But I could feel something changing, something deep and unstoppable.

I didn’t know it then, but the secret hope growing in my heart would soon lead me into a storm far greater than anything I had ever faced.

My life was about to take a turn that would test every part of me.

My courage, my faith, and my very survival.

The night after that last dream, I woke up feeling both peaceful and terrified.

I tried to act normal the next morning, but something in me had changed so deeply that every movement felt different.

I kept my Bible wrapped inside a sweater at the bottom of my bag, hidden from everyone in the room, and I made sure to check it each morning as soon as I woke up.

I didn’t know that the change inside me was already showing on my face, that my eyes looked softer and calmer in a way that would soon bring suspicion.

I went through the day performing my tasks at the refugee center, speaking politely to the staff, smiling at children running in the corridors, and helping new families settle in.

But every moment felt like I was hiding something precious, something fragile, something I could not let anyone see.

A few days later, something happened that made my heart drop in a way I had never felt before.

One of the women who shared the room with us, Rana, returned earlier than usual from her cleaning job.

I had stepped outside to wash clothes near the water taps, and I didn’t realize she had come back.

I left my bag half open on my bed because I thought everyone would return much later.

When I came back into the room carrying the wet clothes, Rana was standing beside my bed holding clink something black in her hand.

At first, I didn’t understand what she was looking at.

But then my eyes focused and I felt my knees weaken.

She was holding my Bible.

She stared at it with wide eyes filled with fear and disbelief as if she had found a bomb.

Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Mariam, what is this doing in your bag?” My heart felt like it stopped beating.

I quickly closed the door and rushed to her, my hands shaking so badly I could barely form words.

“Please, Rana, give it to me,” I whispered.

But she stepped back as if I had brought something cursed into the room.

Her voice grew louder, trembling with panic and disgust.

“Are you crazy? Do you know what this is? Do you know what they will do if they find this here? She looked torn between fear and anger.

And I could see she was already thinking of telling someone.

I tried to reach for the book again, begging her to keep quiet, telling her I wasn’t doing anything wrong, that I was only trying to understand something new.

But the more I tried to explain, the more frightened she became.

This is haram, she said.

This is dangerous.

you will bring trouble to all of us.

Before I could stop her, she opened the door and rushed out of the room, calling for one of the refugee center supervisors.

I stood frozen, unable to think, unable to breathe.

I knew what it meant for someone to find out that a refugee was hiding a Bible in Saudi Arabia.

I knew what people said about apostasy, how the law treated anyone who appeared to be leaving Islam.

I kept trying to tell myself it would be fine, that maybe she wouldn’t find anyone, that maybe she would calm down.

But only minutes later, two female supervisors came into the room with strict expressions.

One of them asked sharply, “Whose book is this?” And in that moment, I felt something inside me collapse.

I wanted to lie.

I wanted to say I didn’t know where it came from, but the truth pushed its way to my lips before I could stop myself.

“It’s mine,” I whispered.

The reaction was immediate.

Their eyes widened with shock, then hardened with something close to anger.

One of them grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room, calling for the security officer stationed at the center.

Rana stood in the doorway crying and shaking her head, refusing to look at me.

My mother, who had been resting on her bed, woke up and saw everything.

She rushed toward us, crying, asking what had happened, begging them not to take me.

But one of the officers stepped between us and said, “She must be questioned.

This is serious.

” My mother tried to follow, but was stopped at the door.

I could still hear her voice calling my name as they led me down the hallway toward the administration office.

Every step felt heavy, like I was walking toward a place I could never return from.

Inside the office, three officials sat behind a long table.

A female officer stood behind me, her hand gripping my shoulder firmly.

One of the men placed the Bible on the table like evidence in a crime.

He asked me where I got it, who gave it to me, and why I had it.

I tried to explain that I was confused, that I was only reading it because I felt lost after everything that happened in Gaza, that I never meant to cause trouble.

But the more I spoke, the more suspicious they became.

They asked if I had met with Christians, if I was communicating with churches, if I had converted to Christianity.

Every question made me feel more trapped.

I kept shaking my head, insisting I had not converted, but they didn’t believe me.

One of the officers said quietly, “Only people who want to leave Islam keep these books.

” They called my mother into the room.

She came in crying, her hands shaking as she looked from my face to the Bible on the table.

“Mariam, tell them this is not yours,” she begged.

“Tell them you found it somewhere.

” But I couldn’t lie.

Not because I wasn’t afraid, but because something in my heart wouldn’t let me.

My mother fell to her knees, sobbing and praying for forgiveness.

The officers looked at her with pity, but didn’t soften their tone.

They told her that if a refugee was suspected of apostasy, the case had to be taken to the religious authorities.

My mother turned to me with eyes filled with devastation.

Why would you bring this into your life, into my life, after everything we escaped? I didn’t have an answer that would make sense to her.

I didn’t even understand everything myself.

Later that day, they allowed me to make one call to my family in Gaza.

I called my uncle because most of the lines in our neighborhood were down and he was the only one who sometimes had access to a working phone.

When he answered, I could hear explosions in the background.

I told him what happened in a trembling voice, hoping he might give me comfort.

But instead, he became silent for a long moment before he said, “Mariam, do you understand what they will do to you? Do you understand what this means?” He said the family was already struggling with the war, that my mother’s reputation would be affected, that I had put everyone at risk.

His words cut through me sharply.

He ended the call by saying, “Pray to Allah.

Ask for forgiveness.

Deny everything.

Don’t let them punish you.

” But I knew deep down that denying everything was no longer possible.

That evening, two religious officers arrived at the center.

They wore white thbes and stern expressions and they asked to speak with me privately in a small room near the entrance.

They introduced themselves as part of the committee for the promotion of virtue and the prevention of vice, a religious authority that handled matters related to Islamic conduct.

When they sat in front of me, their faces serious, I could already feel the fear tightening inside my chest.

One of them opened the Bible and flipped through its pages, saying, “This book is forbidden for Muslims.

Why were you reading it?” I tried to explain that I had been reading it only to understand what Christians believed, that I was not trying to leave Islam.

But he continued pressing, asking if someone was influencing me, if I had started praying in ways that were not Islamic, if I believed Jesus was anything more than a prophet.

Their questions became harder, pressing deep into my soul.

I tried to answer carefully, but every word felt dangerous.

When I hesitated, one of them leaned forward and said, “Be honest.

Do you believe anything in this book?” I felt my heart freeze.

The truth was too complicated to explain.

I still prayed to Allah, but the words of Jesus had touched something inside me that I could not deny.

I didn’t know what I believed fully, but I knew I couldn’t say I rejected everything I had read.

I stayed silent and mighted.

I wanted to scream that I didn’t ask for this, that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, that I was only searching for peace.

But the words stayed inside me.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling like the world around me was collapsing in slow motion.

For the first time since leaving Gaza, I felt a fear deeper than the sound of bombs.

Fear of what people could do when they believed you were betraying the faith.

The next morning, the guards took me to a small vehicle and drove me to the Sharia court of Riyad.

The building was tall and imposing with white marble tiles and a security checkpoint at the entrance.

I had seen courts only once in Gaza when renewing a family document, but nothing like this.

The halls were filled with men in white thes and shakes wearing traditional red checkered gutras.

I felt completely out of place, like someone who had accidentally stepped into a world they didn’t belong to.

They led me into a room where a judge sat behind a high wooden desk.

His face was expressionless as he looked at the files in front of him, flipping through the papers that contained accusations against me.

Apostasy, possession of forbidden religious material, potential conversion.

The judge asked me to stand before him and answer his questions.

He asked how long I had been reading the Bible, whether anyone had given it to me, whether I believed any of its teachings, and whether I still considered myself Muslim.

I tried to speak calmly, but my voice trembled.

I told him I was confused, that I was only searching for comfort, that I had gone through trauma and felt lost, but he did not respond with sympathy.

He said apostasy was a serious offense under Islamic law, especially in a country like Saudi Arabia where religion was tied to the identity of the state.

He said that abandoning Islam, even in thought, was considered a rejection of Allah and a threat to the moral structure of society.

After questioning me for over an hour, he sighed heavily and said, “You will not be judged today.

The court will give you a chance to return to Islam.

” He paused before adding, “Tomorrow morning, you will appear again.

In front of the court, you will choose between the Quran and the Bible.

Your choice will determine the next steps.

” The words felt like a death sentence wrapped in politeness.

The guards escorted me out of the courtroom.

And as the doors closed behind me, I realized that tomorrow I would be forced to choose publicly between everything I had been taught my whole life and the new peace I had found in the words of Jesus.

When they took me back to the refugee center, my mother was waiting outside the room, her eyes red and swollen.

She grabbed my arm and whispered desperately, “Mariam, choose the Quran tomorrow.

Choose life.

Don’t throw your future away.

” I wanted to promise her I would, but when I opened my mouth, no words came out.

She stared at me with growing terror.

Realizing I could not say yes, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed loudly, and everyone in the hallway stopped and watched.

I felt like the walls were closing in, like there was no way to escape.

Tomorrow, I would stand before the judges, imams, and officials, and make a choice that could end my life.

The night felt endless as I lay awake, staring into the darkness, knowing that the path ahead was one I could not avoid.

When night finally came after the court session, I felt like the air around me had turned heavier than the walls closing in on all sides.

I lay awake thinking about the judge’s words, trying to imagine myself standing before everyone with the Quran on one side and the Bible on the other.

The idea filled me with fear so deep that my hands trembled even under the blanket.

I kept wondering what kind of person I had become.

How my life had moved from escaping bombs in Gaza to standing in a Sharia court in Riyad facing a question that could decide whether I lived or died.

I wanted to run away from everything, but there was nowhere to go.

Every direction felt like a locked door and all I could do was wait for morning to come and force me to choose.

I tried to pray in the way I used to, whispering verses from the Quran in hopes of calming my shaking heart.

But the words that usually brought comfort felt distant, as if they no longer belonged to me.

My mother sat on her bed facing the wall, silently crying into her hands.

I wanted to go to her to hold her and promise everything would be fine, but I knew she could barely look at me.

She believed I had opened a door that could destroy both of us.

I whispered her name, hoping she would turn around, but she didn’t move.

That silence hurt more than anything the court had said.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling like I was drifting further away from the person I used to be.

At some point, sleep overtook me, but it came like a storm, full of images and sounds that felt too real to be dreams.

I saw myself standing alone in the same dark desert from the last dream.

The wind swirling around me, making it hard to breathe.

The man in white appeared again, walking toward me with calm, steady steps.

This time, I could hear a faint voice calling my name, not loudly, but softly, like someone waking a child.

When he reached me, he placed his hand on my shoulder, and I felt the fear inside melt like ice under warm sunlight.

The warmth filled my whole body until I began to cry in the dream.

I whispered, “What should I do?” And though his lips never moved, I felt an answer inside my heart, an answer that told me not to be afraid because I was not alone.

When I woke up, tears were still streaming down my face and I felt something like peace wrapping itself around me.

It didn’t make sense because in reality everything was getting worse.

My family turning against me, the court breathing down my neck, the fear of being punished like a criminal.

But deep inside something steady had taken root.

something that made me feel like I was no longer walking through this alone.

I sat up quietly and looked toward my mother, who was still awake now, sitting upright on her bed, staring at the floor with tired eyes.

She looked at me for the first time since yesterday and said in a shaking voice, “Miriam, you must choose the Quran today.

Please don’t do this to us.

” I felt a lump rise in my throat.

Knowing I couldn’t give her the answer she wanted, I spent the entire morning waiting for the guards to arrive and take me back to the court.

Every sound outside the door made me jump.

My stomach twisted with fear, and I couldn’t eat anything.

When the guards finally came, they spoke with cold formality, asking me to follow them.

My mother grabbed my arm one last time and whispered, “Do not shame us.

” Her voice cracked with pain, and I felt guilt crash through me like a wave.

I wanted to tell her I loved her, but the words stuck in my throat.

The guards walked me down the hallway while other refugees watched from their doors, some whispering, others staring with pity or judgment.

It felt like walking through a tunnel, the world narrowing with each step.

The court building felt even colder than the day before.

When the guards led me inside, I saw that the courtroom was fuller than yesterday.

Three imams sat near the front along with several officials wearing traditional Saudi attire.

The judge looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and sternness as if he already knew my answer would not be the one he hoped for.

They handed me the Quran first and asked me to hold it.

The book felt familiar in my hands, the way it always had throughout my life.

They asked me if I would reaffirm my devotion to Islam, repeat the shahada, and promise to abandon all non-Islamic influences.

My voice felt trapped in my chest.

I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Then they handed me the Bible, still wrapped in the evidence bag.

My hands shook as I reached for it.

And the moment I touched it, the same piece from my dream washed over me.

I didn’t know how to explain it, but it felt like something inside me recognized this book.

The judge watched me carefully, waiting for my reaction.

One of the imams stood and began lecturing about the seriousness of apostasy in Islam, warning me that leaving the faith was not just a sin, but a betrayal of Allah, a betrayal that carried consequences in both this life and the next.

He said my soul was in danger and that I needed to choose wisely.

His voice boomed through the room, filling the space with fear.

But inside me, the fear was beginning to fade.

I thought of the bombings in Gaza, the countless nights of terror, the moment I crossed the Rafa border believing Allah had saved me.

And then I thought of the nights in Riyad, when I read the Bible secretly, when the words of Jesus gave me peace that nothing else had given me.

I thought of the dream from the night before, the hand on my shoulder, the voice telling me not to be afraid.

For the first time, I felt certain about something.

I could not turn my back on the truth I had found.

When the judge asked me again to choose, my voice finally emerged.

Steady and quiet.

I choose the Bible.

The room erupted with gasps and the imams exchanged horrified glances.

I felt like the ground had fallen out from under me.

The judge struck his gavel on the wooden block, calling for quiet.

He looked at me with a mixture of sadness and anger before saying, “You have chosen apostasy.

The court must now proceed with the appropriate steps.

” His words were cold and final, like a door slamming shut.

I felt my body grow numb as the guards took me by the arms and escorted me out of the room.

My mother collapsed in the hallway when she heard the news, wailing as if someone had died.

I wanted to go to her, but they pulled me away.

As I walked, her cries rang in my ears, each one stabbing my heart.

They led me to a small holding cell in the basement of the court building, a narrow room with a metal door and a single dim light flickering overhead.

They locked me inside and told me I would remain there until the final decision was announced.

I sat on the cold floor, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to keep myself from shaking.

It felt strange sitting in silence after the chaos of the courtroom.

Hours passed slowly, marked only by the sound of guards footsteps walking past my door.

At some point, an officer entered with a plate of food, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat.

My mind was full of fear and sadness, but underneath all of it was a strange calmness I couldn’t explain.

It felt like someone was holding me together from the inside, whispering that everything would be all right, even though everything looked hopeless.

Later in the evening, the door opened again and two imams entered the cell.

They sat across from me, their faces serious and full of concern.

One of them spoke gently saying, “Mariam, we don’t want to harm you.

You are young.

You have suffered enough.

We want you to return to Islam because we care about your soul.

” They begged me to reconsider my choice, told me that Allah was forgiving and would accept me back if I repented.

They said I had been misled by emotional weakness and trauma from the war.

I listened quietly, feeling their words slide past me like water over stone.

I knew they believed what they were saying, but something inside me had already changed so deeply that I could not go back.

When they realized they couldn’t convince me, their tone shifted.

They reminded me that the punishment for apostasy under Sharia law was severe and could include death.

They reminded me that Saudi Arabia took religion very seriously and that my case was no small matter.

I nodded, acknowledging their words, but I didn’t say anything.

When they left, I felt tears sliding down my face.

But they weren’t tears of fear alone.

They were tears from the weight of everything I had lost, everything I was about to face, and the strange, unexplainable peace that refused to leave my heart.

The next morning, guards came to take me to a different facility.

They placed handcuffs on my wrists and led me outside.

The sun was bright, almost blinding, and the heat pressed against my skin as they escorted me to a vehicle.

I didn’t know where they were taking me, but I knew it was part of the process leading to my punishment.

I didn’t ask questions.

I felt strangely calm, as if I had surrendered to something bigger than my fear.

I leaned my head against the window as we drove, watching the desert landscape pass by.

The sand stretched out endlessly, shimmering under the sun, looking both beautiful and cruel at the same time.

The facility they brought me to was quiet, located far from the city center.

They placed me in a small cell with a mattress on the floor and a narrow window near the ceiling.

This cell felt different, more final, like a place where decisions were carried out.

A female guard looked at me with sad eyes and whispered, “They will come tomorrow to read your sentence.

” Her voice trembled as if she knew what the decision would be.

She left quickly, closing the door behind her.

The silence pressed heavily against my chest.

I felt completely alone, cut off from my mother, from the refugee center, from everything familiar.

That night, as I lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, I felt the fear rising again.

I wondered if I was foolish, if I had thrown away my life for something I didn’t fully understand.

But then I remembered the dreams, the peace, the words in the Bible that had touched me.

so deeply.

I remembered the warmth of the man in white and how he made me feel safe even in the darkest moments.

I whispered, “Jesus, if you are truly real, please stay with me tonight.

” And as soon as I said those words, I felt that same warmth filling the room, like an invisible presence sitting beside me, holding my fear in gentle hands.

I woke up just before dawn.

The cell still dark except for a small beam of early light slipping through the window.

I sat quietly knowing that today would bring the final decision.

I felt heavier than before but still calm like someone had placed their hand on my heart to steady it.

When the guards arrived, they asked me to stand and follow them.

My legs felt weak, but I walked forward anyway.

The corridor felt endless as we moved toward the courtyard where the officials waited.

Each step echoed loudly, like a drum beat counting down to something irreversible.

Yet with each step, I felt the same quiet voice inside me repeating, “Do not be afraid.

” When I reached the courtyard, officials were already gathered, their expressions solemn.

The judge stepped forward and announced the decision, but my ears felt numb, like I was hearing everything from far away.

I didn’t fight, didn’t protest.

I simply listened with my heart steady, knowing that whatever happened next, I was no longer alone.

The guards took me by the arms once more, leading me toward the place where my sentence would be carried out.

I had no idea what miracle or tragedy awaited me there.

But as I walked into the rising sun, I whispered quietly, “Jesus, stay with me.

” The guards escorted me from the courtyard toward a vehicle that was waiting outside the facility, and I felt the heat of the early sun burning against my skin, as if the day itself was warning me of what was coming.

My wrists were bound and the desert wind blew dust into my eyes, making it hard to see clearly.

Two guards held my arms as they guided me to the back of the vehicle, their expression stiff and unreadable.

I could tell they were uncomfortable, perhaps even afraid, because they avoided looking directly at me.

One of them whispered something under his breath in Arabic, something I couldn’t fully hear, but the tone carried fear rather than anger.

When they pushed me inside the vehicle and closed the doors, I felt the walls narrowing around me like a coffin.

I sat there silently, gripping the small Bible they allowed me to keep, feeling its weight like the last piece of hope I had left.

The drive into the desert felt endless.

The vehicle bounced on rough, sandy roads, and with each jolt, I felt my body shaking, not from the ride, but from the reality settling deeper into my bones.

I kept looking out the window, watching Riyad’s outskirts fade behind us as we moved farther into isolation.

There were no buildings, no cars, no signs of life, just sand stretching endlessly in every direction, glowing under the rising sun.

I didn’t ask where they were taking me, because deep down I already knew.

In Saudi Arabia, the desert has always been a place where things happen quietly, away from crowds and attention.

I pressed the Bible against my chest and whispered, “Jesus, if you are with me, please do not leave me now.

” For a brief moment, I felt a warmth spread across my chest, soft and steady, as if someone had placed their hand there.

When the vehicle finally stopped, one of the guards opened the door and signaled for me to step out.

The heat hit me like a wave, almost making me stumble.

We stood in the middle of a barren desert area outside Riyad, far from any towns or travelers.

The sand shimmerred with a harsh brightness, and the air felt painfully dry.

A group of officials was already gathered near a freshly dug pit in the ground.

It was deeper than I expected, a rectangular hole with loose sand piled beside it.

I felt my chest tighten as I realized this was where they planned to bury me.

A shake in a white th stood beside the pit holding a Quran.

And when he looked at me, his eyes carried no emotion, only duty.

The head officer stepped forward and said, “This is your final chance.

Choose the Quran and you will live.

Choose the Bible and you will be buried with it.

” The moment those words left his mouth, the entire desert fell silent.

Even the wind stopped moving as if creation itself paused to hear my choice.

My knees trembled and for a moment I felt dizzy, overwhelmed by fear so deep it made my vision blur.

The shake opened the Quran and held it toward me with both hands.

The Bible trembled in my own hands as I clutched it to my chest.

I looked at the Quran, remembering my childhood, my family, the prayers I had recited thousands of times.

Then I looked down at the Bible, remembering the nights of peace, the dreams, the warmth, the voice that whispered, “Do not be afraid.

” My heart felt torn, but then a strange calm settled over me, like the peace that fills a room after a storm passes.

I lifted my head and said, “I choose the Bible.

I choose Jesus.

” Gasps filled the air.

Some officials stepped back.

A guard muttered, “Afroah.

” The shake’s face tightened with disappointment and he closed the Quran slowly.

The officer gave a small nod to the guards and said, “Then the sentence will be carried out.

” I felt my breath hitch in my throat as two guards grabbed my arms again, more firmly this time.

My legs felt weak, but they supported me as I was pulled toward the edge of the pit.

The desert sun burned hotter now, making sweat drip down my face and neck.

They lowered a wooden ladder into the pit, but instead of letting me climb, they forced me down step by step.

When my feet touched the bottom, I felt the sand sinking slightly under my weight.

The pit walls rose around me like prison walls, trapping me in a narrow space where the sky looked impossibly small.

I stood alone inside the pit, holding the Bible so tightly my knuckles turned white.

The sand beneath my feet felt unstable, as if it could swallow me, even without help.

Above me, the guards looked down from the edge, their faces shadowed by the harsh sunlight.

One of them asked softly, “Last chance.

” But his voice held no real hope.

I shook my head.

My throat was too tight to speak.

The shake began reciting a short prayer.

And then the officer ordered the guards, “Begin.

” I heard shovels digging into the piles of sand, and before I could prepare myself, the first wave of sand fell onto my feet.

The shock of cold desert soil touching my skin made me gasp.

Each shovel full felt heavier than the last, like the weight of finality pressing slowly against my body.

The sand climbed up to my ankles, then my knees.

It felt suffocating, like the earth itself was swallowing me alive.

I clutched the Bible against my chest, closing my eyes as sand brushed against my legs with rough, cold pressure.

Someone from above shouted, “Cover her completely.

” And the guards began to pour the sand faster.

The sound of shovels mixing with my quickened breaths felt surreal, like I was listening to a nightmare rather than living one.

When the sand reached my waist, panic shot through me like lightning.

My chest tightened and I gasped for air, struggling not to scream.

I whispered, “Jesus, please, please don’t leave me.

” And I felt the faint warmth again, faint but present.

Slowly, the fear loosened its grip.

As the sand rose to my chest, I struggled to keep breathing normally.

The weight pressed down on my ribs, making each breath shallow.

I tilted my head back to see the sky one last time.

The sun was directly above me now, its brightness blinding.

The guards continued shoveling until the sand reached my shoulders.

The pressure was painful, like being squeezed between heavy stones.

When the sand reached my neck, I felt tears spill down my face.

I thought of my mother, of Gaza, of the life I once had.

I whispered a final prayer.

Jesus, if this is the end, please take me.

The sand buried my shoulders, then crept up slowly around my neck.

I tried not to panic, tried to trust the warmth I felt earlier, but my heart pounded violently.

Finally, the sand reached my chin and I was forced to lift my head slightly.

I could hear someone above say, “Finish it.

A shovel moved and then sand poured directly onto my face.

” I closed my eyes tightly as darkness swallowed me.

The sand pressed against my mouth, nose, and eyes, and I felt the world fading.

The weight became unbearable, crushing my chest, and stealing my breath.

I forced my lips closed, holding the Bible in both hands as tightly as I could.

Everything around me grew silent.

The darkness felt endless, and the weight of the sand made it impossible to move.

I felt my heartbeat slowing, my lungs burning for air, and in the suffocating darkness, I whispered inside my mind, “Jesus, help me.

” Then it happened.

A deep rumble shook the ground.

Not a small tremor, but a powerful movement that made the sand shift violently.

At first, I thought I was hallucinating in my final moments, but the tremor grew stronger.

The sand above me shook and shifted, loosening its hold on my chest.

I heard shouts above, muffled but frantic.

Then came a sound like the cracking of stone, deep and thunderous, echoing through the desert ground.

Suddenly, a burst of cold air rushed around me as the sand above me began to fall away, not burying me further, but sliding off as if pushed by an invisible force.

My chest expanded as air reached me again, and I gasped, coughing violently as the sand loosened even more.

The rumbling grew louder.

Like something beneath the earth was alive and moving.

I felt the sand around my body shift sideways, not downward.

It pushed outward, creating space around me, space that shouldn’t have existed.

Then from above, a blinding white light pierced through the darkness, cutting through the sand like a blade.

The light wasn’t from the sun.

It was too bright, too pure, too soft, and powerful at the same time.

It surrounded me, bathing me in a warmth that felt exactly like the warmth from the dreams.

I felt as though hands, not physical hands, but something deeper, were pulling the sand away from me, freeing my body with gentle strength.

Voices above screamed, “What is happening? A stag firula.

This is impossible.

” The guards sounded terrified, stumbling away from the pit.

The ground continued shaking until I felt it lift me upward just a few inches, but enough to free my arms and legs from the sand.

The Bible, still clutched in my hands, glowed faintly in the white light, as if responding to the moment.

I cried out softly, overwhelmed by a feeling I couldn’t describe.

Fear, relief, awe, all mixed together.

When the light grew stronger, I felt myself rising slowly, the sand falling away from my body as if invisible arms were carrying me upward.

My feet touched the edge of the pit, and I stood there trembling, covered in sand from head to toe, but alive.

The guards and officials backed away in complete shock.

Some fell to their knees, others crossed their arms in fear, and a few whispered prayers under their breath.

The shake holding the Quran dropped it onto the sand, his face frozen in disbelief.

The head officer stared at me as if seeing a ghost.

The bright light faded slowly, leaving only silence behind.

I stood there gripping the Bible, my whole body shaking, tears streaming down my face.

The desert wind began to blow again, gently this time, as if the world had resumed breathing.

No one approached me.

No one tried to rearrest me.

The guards looked at each other, afraid to touch me.

One whispered, “This is a sign.

” While another said, “Leave her.

God protected her.

” The officer stepped forward, but when he tried to speak, his voice cracked.

He looked down at the pit, then back at me, unable to understand what he had witnessed.

Finally, he lowered his gaze and said softly, “We cannot continue.

This is beyond us.

” The shake turned away, covering his face with both hands, whispering prayers as if hoping to shield himself from what he had just seen.

I stood there unable to move, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the miracle that had saved my life.

The world around me seemed unreal, like I had stepped into a different reality.

I could still feel the warmth of the light inside me, steady and strong.

I knew something divine had intervened, something far greater than anything I had ever known.

And as I looked at the officials scattering in fear and confusion, I realized that nothing in my life would ever be the same again.

When the last traces of the strange light faded from the desert, I stood there trembling, unsure if my legs could hold my weight.

The officers and guards continued backing away, some whispering frantic prayers, others staring at me as if I no longer belonged to this world.

I watched the pit where I had been buried begin to collapse inward, the sand filling it as though the earth itself had decided to erase the evidence.

No one moved towards me to restrain me or pull me away.

For a long moment, we all remained frozen in silence.

The wind swept across the desert, carrying the loose grains of sand into the air, and I felt every part of my body shaking from shock.

I didn’t feel powerful or brave.

I felt small, overwhelmed, and deeply aware that something greater than human authority had just stepped into my story.

The head officer was the first to break the silence.

His voice was shaky, barely louder than a whisper as he said, “We cannot continue this.

” He looked at the shake beside him, who was pale and trembling, clutching his chest as if the moment had shaken his beliefs to their very foundation.

The guards exchanged glances of uncertainty, some looking at me with fear as if touching me might bring judgment upon them.

One of them quietly said, “Let her go.

” And another nodded in agreement.

It was as though the entire group had reached the same conclusion without needing to speak.

I watched their faces and realized they were not only afraid of the miracle, they were afraid of what it meant.

They didn’t know how to report it, how to explain it, or how to justify continuing with the execution after witnessing something they could not deny.

They escorted me back to the vehicle slowly, not with force, but with caution, like someone guiding a fragile person who had just survived an earthquake.

When they helped me inside, no one touched my arms roughly.

No one pushed me or held me tightly.

They acted as though they were afraid to harm me.

Afraid to provoke whatever power had intervened.

The drive back felt different.

No one spoke.

The silence inside the vehicle was heavier than the desert heat.

I sat holding the Bible against my chest, still covered in sand, still shaking, still trying to understand what had happened.

I whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.

” over and over, the words slipping from my lips like a prayer of survival.

When we returned to the facility, they didn’t take me to the courtroom or the holding cell.

Instead, I was taken to a small private room near the back of the building.

The room was simple with a plain wooden chair, a small table, and a single window looking out into a narrow alley.

A female officer entered the room and spoke to me in a quiet voice.

You will not face further punishment, she said.

“Your case is closed.

” Her voice trembled slightly as if she still couldn’t believe what she had seen in the desert.

She swallowed hard before adding, “You cannot stay here.

You will be removed from the kingdom quietly.

No public record will be made.

” She looked at me with eyes full of sympathy and confusion.

For a moment, I saw not the stern face of an officer, but the gentle face of a woman who had witnessed something that challenged everything she had been taught.

I wasn’t allowed to return to the refugee center or see my mother.

When I asked about her, the officer looked away and said, “She has been informed that you were released.

She believes you were transferred.

She didn’t explain more.

I felt my heart tighten painfully inside my chest.

I wanted to hug my mother one last time, to explain what had happened, to tell her I loved her.

But I knew it wasn’t possible.

I knew she would never understand what I had seen or felt.

She would only see my choice as betrayal.

That thought broke me more deeply than any threat of punishment had.

I sat on the chair and cried quietly, the tears mixing with the sand still clinging to my face.

The officer left me alone to grieve in silence.

A few hours later, two men arrived with documents and told me I was being transported to the airport.

They didn’t say where I was going.

They simply said, “It is safer for everyone if you leave.

” I was given plain clothes and allowed to wash the sand from my body.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.

Her eyes were different, wider, gentler, more alive.

I touched my face and whispered, “You are alive.

” The memory of being buried under the sand flashed through my mind and my body trembled again.

I held the Bible tightly in my hands.

It was the only thing they allowed me to keep.

Everything else was taken away.

They escorted me through a back entrance of the facility to avoid attention.

The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink, and for a moment, I stopped walking just to breathe in the warm evening air.

After everything, the simple feeling of air on my face felt like a blessing.

They hurried me along, guiding me into a small, unmarked vehicle.

The drive to the airport was quiet.

The streets of Riyad passed by in a blur.

The tall buildings, the crowded markets, the glowing minouetses of mosques, all so familiar and yet already fading into memory.

I wondered if I would ever walk those streets again.

Deep down, I knew the answer was no.

At the airport, they led me through a private security lane.

No one looked at me or asked questions.

It was as if I didn’t exist, a shadow being moved through the system quietly.

One of the officers handed me a small envelope and said, “Your documents.

” Inside were temporary travel papers with a different status than before.

Papers marked for emergency relocation.

I noticed the destination written on the page, Aman, Jordan.

It wasn’t home, but it was a place where I could live without immediate danger.

They scanned my papers, stamped them, and led me toward the departure gate.

Before boarding, one of the officers leaned close and whispered, “Whatever happened today? It was not human.

Remember that God saved you.

” I nodded, feeling tears rise again.

The flight from Riyad to Aman felt surreal.

I sat by the window watching the city lights disappear beneath the clouds somewhere over the darkness of the Arabian desert.

I pulled the Bible onto my lap and opened it.

The words on the page seemed brighter than ever.

I read quietly, letting each word settle inside me like medicine, healing wounds I didn’t even know I had.

For the first time in months, I felt completely safe.

Not because of where I was going, but because of who was with me.

I whispered, “Jesus, thank you.

” And a soft warmth filled my chest again.

It was the same warmth that saved me under the sand.

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to breathe deeply.

When we landed in Aman, I felt a mixture of fear and relief.

The airport was calmer than Riyad and the officers who met me at the gate were part of a small humanitarian group responsible for receiving refugees who had special relocation orders.

They didn’t ask questions about why I was coming from Saudi Arabia.

They simply checked my documents and guided me outside to a white van.

As I stepped into the cool Jordanian night, I felt something inside me begin to heal.

The air smelled different, fresh, open, hopeful.

The van drove me to a small shelter in the outskirts of the city where I was given a bed and a warm meal.

I slept with the Bible beside my pillow.

Feeling safer than I had felt in a long time.

The next weeks in Jordan were quiet but filled with change.

I met a few Christian volunteers who visited the shelter regularly, bringing food, clothes, and kind smiles.

I didn’t tell them everything that had happened to me at first.

I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me or that telling the story would somehow bring danger again.

But one evening, while sitting alone in the shelter’s courtyard, I felt a gentle nudge in my heart telling me to speak.

When I finally shared my story with one of the volunteers, her eyes filled with tears.

She held my hands and said, “Jesus saved you for a purpose.

Your life is not an accident.

” Hearing those words made something inside me break open, and I cried for a long time.

As weeks turned into months, I began to build a new life.

I attended small Bible study gatherings, learning more about Jesus and the peace he brought into my heart.

Every night I thanked him for saving me twice.

The first time when I escaped the war in Gaza, and the second time in the desert when the sand should have taken my life.

I didn’t forget my mother or my family.

I prayed for them every day, asking Jesus to watch over them, to protect them, and to open their hearts in his time.

Sometimes I dreamed of them, and the dreams made my chest ache, but I trusted that Jesus understood my pain.

One day, something unexpected happened.

I received a message through a private line at the shelter.

It was from a guard who had been at the desert that day.

His voice shook as he said, “I saw what happened.

I cannot forget it.

I want to know about the Jesus who saved you.

” His words stunned me.

I never thought anyone who witnessed the miracle would reach out.

Within a week, another message came from one of the younger officials who had stood near the pit.

He said he couldn’t sleep at night, that the image of the light lifting me from the sand haunted him, that he wanted to understand what he had seen.

I sat there holding the phone, overwhelmed by the realization that Jesus was touching hearts far beyond just mine.

As more time passed, I felt the call to share my testimony.

It wasn’t easy.

Every time I opened my mouth to speak, I remembered the fear, the sand pressing against my face, the terror of not knowing if I would survive.

But I also remembered the light, the warmth, the love that rescued me.

I realized my story was not meant to be hidden.

It was meant to show others that Jesus still saves, still protects, still reveals his power in the darkest moments.

So I began telling my story quietly to small groups, then larger ones.

Each time I spoke, I felt the presence of Jesus reassuring me, giving me strength.

Now, as I stand here today sharing this testimony, I think back to the girl I used to be.

The girl in Gaza who prayed to Allah every night during the bombings.

The girl in Saudi Arabia who hid a Bible under her mattress.

The girl who stood at the edge of life and death with sand covering her face.

I am not that girl anymore.

I am someone new, someone reborn through the power of Jesus Christ.

I am living proof that he still performs miracles, that he still hears the cries of the brokenhearted, that he still saves those who call his name with trembling lips and desperate hope.

So I ask you now from the deepest place in my heart, what are you willing to risk for truth? What are you willing to surrender for peace? What will you choose when faith demands courage? I chose Jesus and he saved me.

Not because I was perfect, but because he loved me even in my fear.

And if he could reach into the desert and pull me from death, he can reach into your life, too.

He can heal you, restore you, and set you free.

I stand alive today because of him, and I will spend the rest of my life telling the world that his love is real, his power is real, and his mercy has no end.