I started speaking at small events, nothing big, just university panels about women’s rights or community gatherings about religious freedom.

I would tell my story in brief form, where I came from, why I left, what I discovered about freedom.

People responded.

After every talk, women would come up to me, Muslim women mostly, and thank me for being brave enough to speak out.

Some of them cried.

Some of them told me they wished they could leave, but didn’t know how.

Some of them just wanted to know they weren’t alone.

Uh, I realized my story had power.

Not because I was special, but because it was real.

And there were thousands of women, living virgins of my story.

But most of them were still trapped.

If I could give them hope, if I could show them that escape was possible, then maybe all the pain I went through had a purpose.

But success in the outside world didn’t fill the void inside me.

I was doing well at university.

My Instagram was growing.

I had friends and a job and my own place to live.

I was even starting to get small paid modeling opportunities.

Nothing major, but enough to make me feel like my dream was becoming real.

On paper, my life looked good.

I was the success story, the girl who escaped and made it.

But at night, alone with myself, I still felt empty.

I tried dating more seriously.

I thought maybe a relationship would fill the void.

Uh, I dated a few different guys, mostly British, mostly white, mostly completely confused about my background and my culture.

One of them was genuinely nice.

His name was James.

He was studying engineering at my university.

We dated for about two months.

He took me to nice restaurants.

We went to museums and movies.

He told me I was beautiful and interesting and strong.

But I didn’t feel anything or I felt something, but it wasn’t enough.

I kept waiting to fall in love, to feel that spark that would make everything make sense, but it never came.

When I broke up with him, he asked why.

I didn’t know how to explain it.

How could I tell him that I was looking for something that he couldn’t give me? That I was looking for meaning and purpose and wholeness and romance wasn’t the answer.

So, I just said it wasn’t working.

Uh that I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship.

He was hurt but accepted it and I went back to being alone.

I kept going to the Thursday women’s group.

By now, I had been attending for about four months.

I knew everyone’s names.

I joined in the discussions more.

I even started praying with them sometimes, though I wasn’t sure who I was praying to.

One evening, the topic was about God’s love.

They were reading from the book of Romans, chapter 8.

One of the women read aloud,”For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can separate us from God’s love.

” Uh, I thought about all the things I had been taught separated me from God’s love.

Being a woman, removing my hijab, leaving Islam, questioning, doubting, disobeying.

But this verse said, nothing could separate me from God’s love if I was in Christ Jesus.

What does that mean? I asked.

Being in Christ Jesus, Margaret smiled at me.

It means accepting that Jesus died for you, that his death paid for your sins, that you’re forgiven not because of anything you did, but because of what he did.

And when you believe that, when you accept that, you’re united with him.

You’re in him, and nothing can take that away.

But I’ve done so many things wrong, I said.

My voice was shaking.

I left my family.

I rejected my religion.

I’ve been living for myself.

Why would God love me? Because love isn’t based on what you do.

Another woman said gently.

Then her name was Joy and she was from Nigeria.

It’s based on who God is.

He loves you because he made you, because you’re his child, not because you earned it.

I felt tears starting.

I tried to hold them back, but I couldn’t.

In Islam, I was taught that God’s love beer has to be earned.

I said that you have to follow all the rules perfectly.

That you’re never good enough.

That you’re always one sin away from hell.

I’m so tired of trying to be good enough.

You don’t have to be good enough, Margaret said.

She moved closer and put her hand on my arm.

That’s the whole point of Jesus.

We can’t be good enough.

We’re all sinners.

We all fall short.

But Jesus was good enough for us.

And when we accept his sacrifice, his goodness becomes ours.

We are made righteous not by our works but by his grace.

Grace.

That word again.

I had heard it so many times in these meetings, but I was starting to understand what it meant.

Grace meant unearned favor, undeserved love, getting something good that you didn’t work for, the opposite of Islam, the opposite of everything I was taught.

I cried that night in the church basement, surrounded by these women who barely knew me but love me anyway.

I cried for the girl who grew up thinking she was never good enough.

I cried for the woman who was tired of trying to earn love.

I cried for all the years I spent afraid of a god who I thought hated me.

And somewhere in those tears, something began to shift.

I started attending Sunday services at the church.

Not just the Thursday women’s group, but the actual church service with the whole congregation.

It was intimidating at first.

Well, there were hundreds of people there.

All kinds of people, young and old, different races, different backgrounds.

Some dressed formally, some in jeans and t-shirts, families with children, young professionals, elderly couples, everyone mixed together.

The worship was different from anything I’d experienced.

In mosques, everyone prays the same way, facing the same direction, following the same movements.

It’s uniform and regimented.

But here people worshiped differently.

Some raised their hands, some stood still, some closed their eyes, some smiled, some cried.

It was personal, individual.

And the songs, the worship songs, they were about love, about grace, about Jesus’s sacrifice, about being forgiven and redeemed and made new.

I stood in the middle of that crowd listening to hundreds of voices singing about God’s love.

Oh, and I felt something I had never felt in a mosque.

I felt welcomed.

The sermons were different, too.

The pastor didn’t shout or threaten.

He taught from the Bible, explaining what it meant, applying it to real life.

He talked about struggles and doubts and failures.

He was honest about his own weaknesses.

And he always came back to Jesus, to the cross, to the fact that Jesus died for sinners, that his love was unconditional, that his grace was sufficient.

Every week I learned something new about who Jesus was, about what he taught, about how Christianity was not just a religion but a relationship with God.

I was still skeptical, still questioning, still afraid to fully believe.

But I couldn’t deny that something was happening in my heart.

One Sunday, the pastor preached about the prodigal son.

Well, it’s a parable.

Jesus told about a son who demanded his inheritance early, left home, wasted all his money on wild living and ended up broke and desperate.

Finally, he decided to go home and beg his father to hire him as a servant.

But when the father saw his son coming from far away, he ran to him.

Ran.

He didn’t wait for an apology.

He didn’t lecture him.

He didn’t make him prove he was sorry.

He just ran to him and threw his arms around him and kissed him.

And then he threw a party.

He gave his son the best robe, a ring, sandals.

He killed the fattened cuff.

He celebrated because his son who was lost had been found.

His son who was dead was alive again.

The pastor said, “That’s what God is like.

that when we come back to him, no matter what we’ve done, he runs to us.

He doesn’t condemn us.

He celebrates us.

I sat in that pew and I thought about my father.

How when I left, he said I was dead to him.

How there was no mercy, no forgiveness, no way back.

And I thought about my heavenly father if he existed.

Would he reject me too or would he run to me? I wanted to believe he would run to me.

I wanted to believe I could be forgiven.

I wanted to believe I could come home, but I was still afraid.

That week, I finally told Aisha I had been going to church.

We were having coffee after class and she was talking about something and I wasn’t really listening because my mind was on the Sunday sermon on the prodigal son on the question of whether God could really love me.

Are you okay? Aisha asked noticing I was distracted.

I hesitated then I decided to just say it.

I’ve been going to church.

She looked surprised.

Church? Like as a Christian church? Yeah.

There was a pause.

I waited for her to tell me I was crazy, that I had escaped one religion just to fall into another, that I was betraying my culture.

But she didn’t say any of that.

How’s it been? She asked.

confusing, I admitted, but also good.

I don’t know.

I’m still figuring it out.

Aisha nodded slowly.

I get it.

After everything you’ve been through, it makes sense you’d be searching for something.

Does it bother you? I asked.

That I’m exploring Christianity? She shook her head.

You have to find your own path.

I’m not going to judge you for that.

I’m still Muslim, but I’m not the kind of Muslim who thinks everyone has to believe the same things I believe.

I felt relieved.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed her acceptance until I got it.

I don’t know if I believe it yet, I said.

The Christian stuff, I mean, it seems too good to be true.

Like the idea that God loves me no matter what I’ve done.

That seems impossible.

Maybe it’s not.

Aisha said, “Maybe that’s exactly what you need to hear right now.

” She was right.

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

The question was, could I believe it? I started meeting with Margaret outside of the Thursday group and Sunday services.

She became something like a mentor to me.

We would meet for coffee or lunch but and I would ask her all my questions about Christianity.

I had so many questions.

If Jesus is God, why did he pray? Who was he praying to? If God is all powerful, why did he let evil exist? If Christianity is true, what happens to people who never heard about Jesus? How can you trust the Bible when it’s been translated so many times? What about all the different denominations? How do you know which one is right? Margaret never seemed frustrated by my
questions.

She answered what she could, and when she didn’t know the answer, she said so.

She gave me books to read.

She introduced me to other people at the church who could help.

But mostly she just pointed me back to Jesus.

Don’t get lost in all the theological debates.

She said once, “Start with Jesus.

Read his words.

Look at his life.

See how he treated people.

What ask yourself if he seems like someone worth following.

Everything else can come later.

” So that’s what I did.

I focused on Jesus.

I I I read the sermon on the mount where Jesus taught about being merciful and pure in heart and making peace.

I read about Jesus feeding the 5000.

I read about Jesus healing the sick.

I read about Jesus raising the dead.

And I read about Jesus dying on the cross.

That part was hard.

In Islam, we’re taught that Jesus didn’t actually die on the cross.

that Allah wouldn’t let his prophet be humiliated like that, that someone else died in his place.

But Christians believe Jesus really died, that he suffered, that he was tortured and humiliated and killed, and they believe he chose it, that he could have called down angels to save him, but he didn’t.

He chose to die.

Why? Uh
Margaret explained it to me using an analogy.

She said, “Imagine you committed a serious crime and were going to be executed for it, but then someone else, someone innocent who loved you, stepped forward and said they would take your place.

They would die instead of you.

” That’s what Jesus did for us.

She said, “We all deserve punishment for our sins.

We all deserve death.

But Jesus took our place.

He died the death we deserved so we could live.

It was a beautiful idea.

But it was also hard to accept because if Jesus died for me, that meant I was worth dying for.

And I had spent my whole life believing I wasn’t worth anything.

About six months into my church attendance, there was a baptism service.

Several people from the church were getting getting baptized declaring publicly that they had decided to follow Jesus.

But I watched them go into the water one by one.

The pastor would say something about their story about their decision to follow Jesus and then he would baptize them in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit.

When they came up out of the water, everyone cheered.

One of the people being baptized was a woman from the Middle East.

I didn’t know her well, but I knew she was from a Muslim background like me.

She stood in the water and she said, “I was looking for love in all the wrong places, but I found it in Jesus.

He loves me completely and I’m never letting go of that love.

” Then she went under the water and came back up behind, tears streaming down her face, smiling so big.

I wanted that.

I wanted that joy, that certainty, that love.

But I was terrified because getting baptized would mean I really was leaving Islam.

Not just culturally, but spiritually.

It would mean I believed Jesus is God, that he died for me, that I was a Christian, and apostasy, leaving Islam, is punishable by death according to Islamic law.

If I got baptized and my family found out, they would consider me truly lost, beyond saving.

I was already cut off from them.

But this would be final, permanent.

There would be no going back.

Could I do it? Could I make that choice? I didn’t know.

Not yet.

I spent the next few weeks wrestling with the decision.

Every time I went to church, every time I read the Bible, every time I prayed, and yes, I was praying now, though I still wasn’t sure who I was praying to, I felt pulled in two directions.

One part of me wanted to surrender, to accept Jesus, to be baptized, to finally have that relationship with God that everyone kept talking about.

Uh, but another part of me was afraid, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being deceived again, afraid of the consequences.

What if Christianity wasn’t true? What if I was just emotionally vulnerable and these Christians were manipulating me? What if I converted and then regretted it? And what about my family? Yes, they had disowned me.

Yes, they considered me dead.

But getting baptized would make it official.

There would be no possibility of reconciliation ever.

They would know for certain that I had become an apostate.

Could I live with that? I started reading the Quran again, not because I wanted to go back to Islam, but because I needed to be sure I was making the right choice.

I needed to compare what I had been taught with what I was learning about Christianity.

I read the verses about women, about how men are in charge of women, uh, about how a man can hit his wife if he fears disobedience, about how men can marry up to four wives, about how a woman’s inheritance is half a man’s.

About how a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s.

I read the verses about non-believers.

about how Jews and Christians are misguided.

About how those who don’t accept Islam will burn in hell forever.

About jihad, about fighting until all religion is for Allah.

I read the verses about apostasy, about how those who leave Islam should be killed.

And I compared them to what Jesus said.

Jesus said to love your enemies, to pray for those who persecute you, to turn the other cheek, to forgive 70 times seven times.

Jesus said that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.

Not because of their works, but because of his sacrifice.

Jesus said, “Come to me, o all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

” The more I read both books side by side, the clearer it became.

Islam offered me rules, fear, and conditional acceptance.

Christianity offered me grace, love, and unconditional acceptance.

Islam told me I was deficient because I was a woman.

Christianity told me I was made in God’s image and loved completely.

Islam told me I had to earn my way to paradise through good good works.

Christianity told me paradise was a free gift I couldn’t earn.

The choice became obvious.

But there was still one more hurdle, one more question I needed answered.

If Jesus was real, if he really loved me, I needed to experience him for myself, not just read about him, not just hear other people’s stories.

I needed my own encounter.

So, I prayed, really prayed, not the ritual prayers I learned in Islam, like but a real conversation.

I was in my room late at night sitting on my bed and I just talked out loud.

Jesus, if you’re real, I need to know.

I need you to show me.

I’ve left everything.

My family, my country, my religion, I can’t afford to be wrong about this.

So, please, if you’re really the son of God, if you really died for me, if you really love me, show me.

Help me believe.

I didn’t hear a voice.

I didn’t see a vision.

Nothing dramatic happened.

But I felt something.

A warmth in my chest.

A peace that I can’t quite explain.

Like someone was there with me in that room.

Like I wasn’t alone.

And I had this sudden overwhelming sense that I was loved.

Deeply, completely, unconditionally loved.

I started crying.

Not sad tears, but tears of relief.

Like I had been holding my breath for years.

And finally, finally, I could breathe.

Uh I don’t know how long I cried.

But when I stopped, I knew Jesus was real.

He loved me and I was his.

I told Margaret the next day that I wanted to be baptized.

Uh we were having coffee and I just said it straight out.

I want to be baptized.

I want to follow Jesus.

I’m ready.

Her face lit up as she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

Are you sure? She asked.

Do you understand what this means? Yes, I said.

It means I’m choosing Jesus.

It means I’m declaring publicly that I believe he died for me and rose again.

It means I’m a Christian now.

It also means you might face opposition, Margaret said gently.

From your community, from other Muslims.

Are you prepared for that? I’m already facing opposition, I said.

I already get death threats.

I am already disowned.

This won’t change that, but it will change me.

Then it will make it real.

Margaret nodded.

Then let’s talk to the pastor and set a date.

The baptism was scheduled for three weeks later.

In those three weeks, I met several times with the pastor and some church leaders.

They wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing, that I wasn’t being pressured, that I had counted the cost.

We talked about my testimony, my story of how I came to faith.

They encouraged me to write it down and share it at my baptism.

Writing my testimony was emotional.

I had to go back through my whole life growing up in Saudi Arabia.

The oppression, the escape, the emptiness, the search, the finding.

I wrote about how Islam taught me to fear God, but Jesus taught me to love him.

How Islam made me feel worthless but Jesus made me feel precious.

How Islam offered me rules but Jesus offered me relationship.

I wrote about the moment I prayed and felt his presence about how I knew without any doubt that he was real and that he loved me.

Reading it back to myself, I couldn’t believe this was my story.

that I had gone from a girl in an an abaya in Riyad to a woman about to be baptized in London.

God had brought me so far.

The day of my baptism, I was nervous, not because I doubted my decision, but because I was about to stand in front of hundreds of people and declare my faith publicly.

My housemates came to support me.

Aisha came even though she was still Muslim.

Some of my classmates came.

The women from the Thursday group were all there sitting in the front row.

I wore a simple white dress, white for new beginnings, white for purity, white for the clean slate I was receiving through Christ.

When it was my turn, Adi, I stepped into the baptismal pool.

The water was warm.

The pastor was standing there smiling at me.

He asked me to share my testimony.

I took a deep breath and spoke into the microphone.

My voice shaking a little at first but getting stronger.

I told them about Saudi Arabia, about being told I was less because I was a woman, about escaping to London, about the freedom that still felt empty, about finding the church, about reading the Bible and seeing how Jesus treated women with dignity and love.

About the night I prayed and felt God’s presence for the first time.

about how I knew without any doubt that Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life.

For so long, I was told I had to earn love.

I said that I had to be perfect to be accepted.

That I was never good enough.

But Jesus showed me that love is a gift.

Uh that I’m loved not because of what I do, but because of who I am, his child.

And that changes everything.

There were tears in the audience.

I could see Margaret crying.

Even Aisha had tears in her eyes.

Then the pastor asked me the questions.

Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God? I do.

Do you believe that he died for your sins and rose again? I do.

Do you accept him as your Lord and Savior? I do.

Then I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

He put his hand on my back and lowered me into the water.

For a moment, I was completely submerged, completely under.

And in that moment, I felt all the old life washing away.

All the shame, all the fear, all the worthlessness, all the years of being told I wasn’t enough, gone.

Then he lifted me up out of the water.

I gasped.

Odd water streaming down my face.

My hair plastered to my head, and I felt new, clean, reborn.

The congregation erupted in applause and cheers.

I was crying and laughing at the same time.

The pastor hugged me.

Margaret was there with a towel, wrapping me up, crying with me.

“Welcome to the family,” she whispered.

“I was home.

Being baptized didn’t magically make all my problems disappear.

I still had struggles.

I still had doubts sometimes.

I still made mistakes.

But everything was different now because I knew I was loved.

When I messed up, I didn’t have to fear that God would reject me.

I could come to him and ask for forgiveness knowing he would give it.

When I felt lonely, I could pray and know that he was with me.

When I felt afraid, I could remember that nothing could separate me from his love.

Uh, I started learning what it meant to be a Christian.

Not just in belief, but in practice.

I learned about forgiveness, real forgiveness.

The pastor preached about how Jesus told us to forgive, not seven times, but 70 times.

Seven times to forgive as we have been forgiven.

That was hard because I had a lot of unforgiveness in my heart toward my father, toward my family, toward the culture that oppressed me, toward the religion that taught me I was less.

But I started praying for them, actually praying for them, asking God to open their eyes, to help them see his love, to set them free from the bondage I had been in.

It didn’t happen overnight.

Forgiveness is a process, but slowly the bitterness started to loosen its grip.

I also learned about grace, extending to others the same grace God had extended to me.

I thought about all the people who had hurt me and I realized they were trapped too.

My father was trapped in a system that taught him women were property.

My mother was trapped in a life where she had no voice.

The religious leaders were trapped in a rigid interpretation of Islam that left no room for love or mercy.

They weren’t free.

They were just as much prisoners as I had been.

And Jesus died for them, too.

That realization changed how I saw them.

I could hate what they did without hating them.

I could reject their beliefs without rejecting their humanity.

My relationship with my church family deepened.

These people became my real family.

The family I chose and who chose me back.

When I was sick, they brought me soup.

When I was struggling with coursework, they helped me study.

When I was sad, they sat with me.

Oh my.

When I celebrated something good, they celebrated with me.

This was what family was supposed to be, not control and obligation, but love and support.

I also started serving in the church.

I joined the hospitality team, helping welcome new visitors.

I knew what it felt like to walk into a church for the first time, nervous and uncertain.

So I made sure to greet people warmly to make them feel seen and valued.

I also started helping with the international students ministry, reaching out to other students from Muslim backgrounds who were exploring Christianity.

I could relate to their questions, their fears, their struggles.

I could share my story and help them see that it was possible to leave Islam and find real peace in Jesus.

This became my passion, helping other women who were trapped like I had been.

My Instagram continued to grow.

Uh, I was posting regularly about my faith now, pictures of me at church, Bible verses that meant something to me, reflections on my journey.

The response was mixed.

Some people celebrated with me.

Other ex-Muslims reached out to say my story gave them hope.

Christians thanked me for being brave enough to share.

But the hate increased, too.

I received more death threats, more messages calling me an apostate, a traitor, a People said I had sold out my culture for the West, that I was going to hell, that Allah would punish me.

Some of the messages were specific and frightening.

People claimed to know where I lived, threatened to find me, promised to make me pay.

I was scared sometimes.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t.

There were nights I doublech checked my locks and looked over my shoulder walking home from the tube.

But I refused to be silent.

Because for every hate message I received, I also received messages from women thanking me.

Women saying my story helped them.

women saying they were leaving Islam too because they saw that there was hope on the other side.

If my story could help even one woman find freedom, the risk was worth it.

I also started speaking more publicly, not just at small university panels, but at conferences, at churches, at events focused on religious freedom and women’s rights.

I would tell my story, the whole story, growing up in Saudi Arabia, the oppression, the escape, the search, finding Jesus, and I would speak directly about Islam, not with hate, but with truth.

I talked about the specific teachings that harmed women.

The verse that says men can strike their wives.

The law that says a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s.

Uh the practice of child marriage, which Muhammad himself participated in when he married Aisha at age six.

I talked about the hypocrisy I witnessed.

Men who prayed a five times a day but were cruel to their wives.

Religious leaders who preached piety but lived in luxury.

A system that claimed to honor women but treated them like property.

I talked about the fear that per permeates Islam.

Fear of hell.

Fear of punishment.

Fear of doing something wrong.

living your whole life afraid of a God who seems more interested in judging you than loving you.

And then I would talk about Jesus, about how he set me free, how he showed me what God is really like.

Not a distant judge waiting to punish, but a loving father running to embrace his lost children.

How he died for me while I was still a sinner.

Not after I cleaned up my life, but while I was still a mess, I would end every talk with an invitation.

If you’re a Muslim woman who feels trapped, I want you to know there is hope here.

There is freedom.

There is love waiting for you in Jesus Christ.

I’m not asking you to leave your family or your country.

Though you may have to make hard choices, I’m asking you to open your heart to the possibility that Jesus is who he says he is, that he loves you, that he died for you, that he wants to set you free.

Read the Gospels for yourself.

Ask Jesus to reveal himself to you, and see what happens.

Some people walked out of these talks.

Some shouted at me, but others stayed.

Others cried.

Others came up afterward and asked how they could know more.

And some months or years later or would send me messages saying they had given their lives to Christ because of my testimony.

That made everything worth it.

About a year after my baptism, I was invited to speak at a gala in London.

It was a charity event raising money for women’s rights and they wanted me to share my story as part of the program.

This was a big event.

Hundreds of people, professional setting, formal dress.

I wore a red evening gown.

Red because I could wear red now.

Red because I was no longer hiding.

read because I was alive and free and unashamed.

I stood on that stage looking out at the crowd and I thought about the journey that brought me there from a girl in an abaya in Riyad to a woman on stage in London.

I shared my story, the usual parts, Saudi Arabia, oppression, escape, freedom, but I ended differently this time.

Oh, I looked out at all those faces and I said, “There’s someone I need to talk about.

Someone who changed my life.

His name is Jesus Christ.

He was killed and hung on the cross.

He died for you and me.

He died for every person in this room, regardless of what you believe or where you come from.

And I’m here today free and whole and loved because of him.

If you’re searching for meaning, if you’re searching for love, if you’re searching for freedom, come to Jesus now to be saved.

He’s waiting for you with open arms.

There was silence for a moment, then applause.

Not everyone agreed with me, I’m sure, but they let me speak my truth, and that was all I needed.

That moment on stage was six months ago.

Now I’m sitting in my flat in London, a different flat, a nicer one that I can actually afford now.

And I’m recording this video to share my full story with you.

A lot has happened in the two and a half years since I left Saudi Arabia.

A lot has happened in the year and a half since I gave my life to Christ.

I want to tell you what my life looks like now.

Not because it’s perfect, it’s not.

But because I want you to see what freedom looks like, what peace looks like, what real love looks like.

I wake up most mornings around 7.

The first thing I do is pray.

Not ritual prayer where I’m going through motions and reciting words I memorized, but actual conversation with God.

I tell him good morning.

I thank him for the new day.

I ask him to guide me.

Then I read my Bible.

Usually just a chapter or two.

Sometimes I read the Psalms.

Those ancient prayers and songs that express every human emotion.

Oh, from joy to despair.

Sometimes I read from the Gospels, spending time with Jesus.

Sometimes I read from Paul’s letters, learning about what it means to live as a Christian.

The Bible is alive to me now.

It’s not just a book of rules or a history text.

It’s God speaking to me.

Every time I read it, I find something new, something that applies to exactly what I’m going through.

It’s like God is writing me personal letters.

After that, I usually go for a walk.

London is beautiful in the morning.

I walk through the parks watching the city wake up and I pray some more.

I pray for my family even though they don’t speak to me.

I pray for other women in situations like I was in.

I pray for my church.

I pray for the people I’ll interact with that day.

Prayer isn’t a chore anymore.

It’s not something I do because I have to.

No, it’s something I do because I want to.

Because I know God hears me.

Because I know he cares.

I’m still at university finishing my degree in fashion and media studies.

I graduate in a few months.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll do after graduation, but I’m not worried.

God has taken care of me so far.

He’ll continue to take care of me.

My Instagram has grown to over 50,000 followers now.

It’s become a platform not just for fashion but for faith.

I post outfits, yes, but I also post Bible verses, reflections on my journey, encouragements for other women who are struggling.

I’ve had to be careful.

The death threats are real.

I’ve reported the worst ones to the police.

I’ve had to block thousands of accounts.

I’ve had to make my location settings private and be cautious about what I share.

But I won’t stop using my voice.

All right.

I get messages every single day from women around the world.

Women in Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Egypt, Turkey.

Women who are trapped in situations like I was, women who are questioning Islam, women who want to know more about Jesus.

I respond to as many as I can.

I pray for them.

I point them to resources.

I connect them with safe churches or organizations that can help them if they decide to leave.

Some of them do leave.

Some of them come to faith in Christ.

And when they tell me their stories, when they send me pictures of their baptisms, I cry with joy.

This is my purpose now.

This is why God saved me.

Not just for my own freedom, but so I could help others find freedom, too.

I’m also involved in modeling more seriously.

Now, I’ve done some small campaigns, some runway shows, some photo shoots.

Nothing huge yet dare, but it’s growing.

For a long time, I thought wanting to be a model was vain, that it was shallow or selfish.

But I’ve realized it’s not about vanity.

It’s about using the gifts God gave me for his glory.

I am beautiful because God made me beautiful.

And I can use that beauty to point people to him.

I can stand on a stage or in front of a camera and represent women who look like me.

Arab women, Middle Eastern women, women from Muslim backgrounds and show the world that we are valuable, that we are worth seeing, that we are not just bodies to be hidden or controlled, but human beings made in God’s image.

Recently, I have started competing in pageantss again, bigger ones.

This time I placed in the top 10 in one competition.

I won mis congeniality in another.

But the crown I’m chasing isn’t made of rhinestones and metal.

The crown I’m chasing is eternal.

The crown that God promises to those who love him.

Still, I use these pageantss as platforms.

Every time I have a chance to speak, I talk about my faith.

I talk about Jesus.

I make it clear that my beauty, my worth, my value, none of it comes from how I look or what I accomplish.

It comes from being a daughter of the king.

My church family continues to be my anchor.

I see them multiple times a week.

Sunday service, Thursday women’s group, and various other gatherings throughout the week.

We celebrate together.

We mourn together.

We do life together.

When one woman in our group lost her job, we all helped her with rent until she found something new.

When another woman got engaged, we threw her a party.

When I was sick with the flu last winter, people brought me groceries and medicine and checked on me every day.

This is what the body of Christ is supposed to look like.

We’re not perfect.

We have disagreements sometimes.

We annoy each other sometimes, but we love each other.

And that love is real.

I’ve also started leading a small group for ex-Muslim women.

There are about eight of us who meet every other week.

We study the Bible together, pray together, and support each other through the unique challenges we face.

Because leaving Islam for Christ isn’t easy.

We all deal with guilt, with grief over lost families, with fear of threats and violence, with confusion about how to live as Christians when we’re still learning what that means.

But we don’t have to go through it alone.

We have each other and we have Jesus.

People ask me sometimes if I regret my decision, if I wish I had stayed in Saudi Arabia, followed the path that was laid out for me, kept the peace with my family.

The answer is no.

Not for a second.

Yes, I lost my family.

That pain is real and it doesn’t go away.

There are days I miss my mother so much it physically hurts.

There are days I wonder what my brothers are doing, if they ever think about me, if they miss me too.

But I gained so much more than I lost.

I gained freedom, the freedom to think for myself, to make my own choices, to be myself without apology.

I gained purpose.

My life has meaning now beyond just existing or serving others.

I have a mission to share the love of Jesus with others who need to hear it.

I gained peace, real peace, not the absence of problems, but the presence of God in the midst of problems.

I don’t have to be afraid anymore.

So, I don’t have to earn love anymore.

I don’t have to prove my worth anymore.

And I gained Jesus, the one who died for me, the one who loves me.

unconditionally.

The one who calls me his own.

How could I regret that? I still struggle sometimes.

I want to be honest about that.

I struggle with forgiveness.

Even though I pray for my family.

There are days I’m angry at them.

Angry at what they did to me.

Angry at what they continue to do to other girls in their care.

I struggle with fear.

The death threats are real.

The danger is real.

I’ve had to take precautions.

I’ve had to be careful.

I struggle with loneliness.

Even though I have my church family and friends, there are times I feel the weight of being cut off from my biological family, of not having that connection.

I struggle with doubt sometimes too.

Not doubt about Jesus.

I know he’s real.

So, but doubt about myself.

Wondering if I’m doing enough, if I’m living the way I should, if I’m making the right decisions.

But when those struggles come, I do what I’ve learned to do.

I pray.

I read the Bible.

I talk to my church family.

I remind myself of the truth.

The truth is that I’m loved.

Not because of what I do, but because of who I am, God’s child.

The truth is that nothing can separate me from God’s love in Christ Jesus.

The truth is that Jesus is with me always, even in the hard moments.

And that truth sets me free every single time.

Let me speak directly to some of you watching this.

If you’re a Muslim woman feeling trapped, whether you’re in Saudi Arabia or Iran or Pakistan or anywhere else, I want you to know something.

You are not alone.

You are not crazy for wanting more.

You are not wrong for questioning.

The doubts you have uh about Islam, they’re valid.

The questions you’re asking, they deserve answers.

You’ve been told that that a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s testimony.

That’s not from God.

That’s from men who wanted to control you.

You’ve been told that men can have multiple wives, but you can only have one husband.

That’s not love.

That’s oppression.

You’ve been told that your father or brother or husband is your guardian.

that you can’t travel or work or make decisions without their permission.

That’s not protection.

That’s imprisonment.

You’ve been told that if you remove your hijab or question Islam, you’ll burn in hell.

That’s not truth.

That’s fear used to control you.

I’m not saying Islam is the only religion with problems, but I am saying that the specific problems in Islam, especially regarding women, are real and they’re serious and they’re harming millions of women around the world.

And there is another way.

Jesus said, “Come to me all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.

If you’re tired of carrying the weight of all those rules, all that fear, all that shame, he’s offering you rest.

Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” If you’re searching for truth, that he is it.

Not a system of rules, not a religion, but a person, a relationship.

Jesus said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

” real freedom.

Not just freedom from hijab or guardianship laws, but free of freedom from sin, from shame, from fear.

I know it’s scary.

I know it costs.

Believe me, I know.

But Jesus is worth it.

I’m not asking you to make a decision right now.

I’m just asking you to be open.

Read the Gospel of John.

just one book that see what Jesus says about himself.

See how he treats women.

See if it resonates with your heart and pray.

Even if you’re not sure God will hear you, pray.

Ask Jesus to reveal himself to you.

Ask him if he’s real.

Ask him to show you the truth.

He will.

I promise you, he will.

To my Christian brothers and sisters watching this, I have a message for you too.

There are Muslim women in your communities, at your universities, in your workplaces, in your neighborhoods, who are searching for truth, who are questioning, who are hungry for love and acceptance and freedom.

Will you reach out to them not to argue with them or to prove them wrong but to love them to befriend them to show them the love of Jesus in practical ways.

Invite them for coffee.

Ask about their lives.

Listen to their stories.

Don’t preach at them.

Just be their friend.

And and when they ask questions, and they will ask questions, answer with grace and truth.

Don’t be afraid to talk about the hard things about how Jesus treated women, about how Christianity is different from Islam, about the freedom we have in Christ.

But do it with love.

Always with love.

also support women like me, ex-Muslim women who have left Islam for Christ.

We face unique challenges.

We need safe communities.

We need disciplehip.

We need people who understand what we’ve been through.

If your church doesn’t have a ministry for ex-Muslims, consider starting one.

Or at least be aware that we’re there and we need you.

To those of you who aren’t Muslim or Christian, maybe you’re watching this and thinking about your own faith or lack thereof.

Maybe you’re an atheist and you think all religion is harmful.

Uh I used to think that too after I left Islam, but I was wrong.

Not all religions are the same.

Some offer bondage, some offer freedom.

Jesus offers freedom.

Maybe you’re from another faith, Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, whatever.

I respect that.

I’m not here to attack your beliefs, but I am here to tell you that Jesus changed my life.

That he loved me when I was unlovable.

That he gave me a purpose when I felt worthless.

And I believe he can do the same for you.

Whatever you believe, I just ask that you be open to truth.

Be open to the possibility that Jesus is who he says he is.

That he died for you.

That he loves you because he does.

Whether you believe in him or not, he loves you.

He created you.

He knows every hair on your head.

And he wants a relationship with you.

Sometimes people ask me what happened to my family.

uh if I’ve had any contact with them, the answer is no.

Not in over two years.

I don’t know what my mother is doing.

I don’t know if my brothers are married.

I don’t know anything about their lives.

Sometimes I look at my phone and think about calling, but I know what would happen.

They would either not answer or they would answer and tell me I’m dead to them.

So I don’t call.

Instead, I pray.

I pray that God would soften their hearts.

I pray that they would encounter Jesus somehow.

I pray that one day maybe we could be reconciled.

But even if that never happens, I have a family, my church family, my sisters and brothers in Christ who have loved me and accepted me and walked with me through everything.

And I have a father, a heavenly father who will never disown me, never reject me, never stop loving me.

That’s uh more than enough.

A my life now is so different from what it was supposed to be.

I was supposed to be married to that man my father chose for me.

I was supposed to be in Saudi Arabia cooking and cleaning and having babies.

I was supposed to be covered from head to toe, invisible, voiceless, powerless.

Instead, I’m in London.

I’m a university student.

I’m a model.

I’m a speaker.

I’m a Christian.

I have a voice and I use it.

I don’t live in a palace.

I don’t have wealth or fame.

I have a small flat and a part-time job and a tight budget.

But I have something more valuable than all the riches in Saudi Arabia.

I have freedom.

I have purpose.

I have peace.

I have love.

And I have Jesus.

Recently I was reading in the book of Revelation.

And I came across this verse.

Be faithful even to the point of death.

Uh and I will give you life as your victor’s crown.

a victor’s crown.

That’s what Jesus promises to those who are faithful to him.

I’ve competed in pageantss.

I’ve worn crowns made of metal and plastic and rhinestones.

They’re pretty.

They sparkle.

They makes for nice photos, but they’re temporary.

They tarnish.

They break.

They mean nothing in the end.

The crown Jesus offers is eternal.

It’s a crown that will never fade, never break, never lose its value.

That’s the crown I’m living for now.

The crown that matters.

I was a beauty queen for a moment.

But I’m a daughter of the king forever.

So this is my story.

From a gilded ca cage in Riyad to freedom in Christ.

From a girl who was told she was worthless to a woman who knows she’s precious.

From a life of fear to a life of love, Jesus did this, all of it.

He reached down into my darkness and pulled me into his light.

He took my shame and gave me dignity.

He took my chains and gave me wings.

And he can do the same for you.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever you’ve done, Jesus loves you.

He died for you.

He’s calling you to come to him.

Don’t wait.

Don’t let fear or doubt or pride or anything else keep you from the love that’s waiting for you.

He was killed and hung on the cross.

He died for you and me.

Come to Jesus now to be saved.

He’s waiting for you with open arms.

Just like the father in the story of the prodigal son.

He’s watching for you.

And when you take that first step toward him, he’ll run to you.

He’ll embrace you.

He’ll celebrate you because his love is unconditional.

His grace is sufficient.

His mercy is endless.

This is my testimony.

This is my story.

And I pray uh with everything in me that it will become yours too.

Come home.

Come to Jesus.

Come and see.

The crown that matters is waiting for you.

I close my laptop after finishing the recording.

My face is wet with tears, but I’m smiling.

This is my life now.

Sharing my story, pointing others to Jesus, using my voice for his glory.

It’s not what I planned.

It’s better.

I look out my window at the London skyline.

Somewhere out there are women like I used to be trapped, hurting, searching.

I pray that my words reach them.

That my story gives them hope.

That Jesus uses my broken pieces to show them he can make something beautiful.

Because that’s what he does.

He takes the broken and makes them whole.

He takes the lost and brings them home.

He takes the dead and gives them life.

That’s the Jesus I serve.

That’s the King I follow.

Uh and I will spend the rest of my life telling anyone who will listen about the love that saved me.

I was a beauty queen who lost everything.

But I found my true crown in Christ and that makes all the difference.

 

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