Saudi Prince Forced to Share Wife With Father THEN Jesus Saves Them


My name is Nasir.

I’m 34 years old and I was born a Saudi prince in 1990.

I had everything money could buy.

But on September 12th, 2018, my father demanded that I share my wife with him.

That day destroyed my perfect life and led me straight to Jesus Christ.

I was born into a world that most people can only dream of.

The royal palace in Riad wasn’t just my home.

It was my entire universe.

Goldplated everything.

Servants who anticipated my every need before I even knew I had one and wealth that seemed endless.

My childhood was spent in marble halls that echoed with the sound of my footsteps, surrounded by luxury that I thought was normal.

Every morning I would wake up in silk sheets, eat breakfast prepared by the finest chefs in the kingdom, and receive private tutoring from scholars who had devoted their lives to educating royalty.

But with all that privilege came expectations that weighed heavier than any crown.

From the moment I could walk, I was groomed to be the perfect Islamic prince.

Five prayers a day were not negotiable.

Memorizing the Quran was not optional.

Understanding Sharia law was essential for my future role as a leader.

My father made it clear that I represented not just our family but the entire kingdom and our faith.

Every action I took reflected on the royal bloodline and failure was not an option.

The religious obligations shaped every aspect of my life.

I spent hours each day studying Islamic Jewish prudence with the most respected imams in Saudi Arabia.

They taught me that absolute obedience to Allah and to earthly authority were one and the same.

My father as king was Allah’s representative on earth in our kingdom.

To question him was to question God himself.

This belief system became so deeply embedded in my mind that I never even considered challenging it until much later.

When I turned 25, my father informed me that it was time for me to marry.

In our culture, arranged marriages were the norm, especially for royalty.

Political alliances, tribal connections, and family honor all played a role in selecting a suitable bride.

I had no expectations of love or romance.

Marriage was a duty, a responsibility to produce heirs and strengthen our family’s position.

But when I first saw my bride, everything changed.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, yes, but there was something more.

Intelligence sparkled in her eyes, and when she spoke, I heard wisdom beyond her years.

Our wedding was a grand affair with thousands of guests, international dignitaries, and ceremonies that lasted for days.

Yet, the moment that mattered most to me was when we were finally alone together for the first time.

What started as an arranged marriage quickly blossomed into genuine love.

My wife was not just beautiful on the outside.

She possessed a heart that was pure and kind.

She cared for the servants with genuine compassion.

She asked thoughtful questions about governance and showed real concern for our people’s welfare.

In private moments away from the formal protocols of court life, we would talk for hours about our dreams, our hopes for the future, and the kind of rulers we wanted to become.

She made the cold marble palace feel like a warm home.

When she laughed, the sound filled rooms that had always felt empty despite their grandeur.

She had a way of making even the most mundane royal duties feel meaningful because we were doing them together.

For 3 years, we built a life that felt perfect.

We talked about the children we would have, the reforms we might implement when I became king, and the legacy we wanted to leave behind.

But I was naive about my father’s true character.

As king, he projected an image of piety and justice to the world.

He was seen as a defender of Islamic values and a wise leader.

Foreign diplomats respected him and our people feared and revered him.

I had grown up seeing only the version of him that he wanted me to see.

The stern but supposedly loving father who was preparing me for leadership.

Over the years, however, I began to notice things that disturbed me.

The way female servants would quickly look away when he entered a room.

hush conversations that stopped abruptly when I appeared.

My mother’s resigned sadness that she tried to hide behind her royal composure.

I learned that my father had taken multiple wives and concubines over the years, often against their will, always justified by his interpretation of Islamic law and his absolute authority as king.

There were stories, whispers really, about other family members who had disappeared or been silenced when they opposed him.

Cousins who had questioned his decisions and were suddenly sent away on permanent diplomatic missions.

An uncle who had spoken against one of his policies and died in a mysterious accident.

I told myself these were just palace rumors.

the kind of gossip that swirls around any center of power.

But deep down, I was beginning to understand that my father was not the man I thought he was.

He was not driven by faith or justice or love for his family.

He was driven by an insatiable appetite for control and power.

He saw people, even his own children, as positions to be used for his benefit.

the Islamic principles he claimed to uphold were simply tools he wielded to justify his desires.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you do if you discovered that everything you believed about someone you loved and respected was a lie? That realization was slowly dawning on me.

But I was not prepared for how far my father’s corruption would reach into my own life.

I thought that my position as his son and heir would protect my wife and me from his cruelty.

I believed that the happiness we had found together was safe from his interference.

I was wrong about everything.

September 12th, 2018 started like any other day in the palace.

I performed my morning prayers, had breakfast with my wife, and reviewed some documents related to a new infrastructure project.

Around noon, a servant approached me with a message that my father wanted to see me in his private chambers immediately.

Such summons were not unusual, so I thought nothing of it, as I made my way through the familiar quarters to his wing of the palace.

When I entered his chambers, my father was seated behind his massive desk, his expression unreadable.

He dismissed his adviserss with a wave of his hand, and we were alone.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long before he finally spoke.

His words hit me like a physical blow.

He told me in the same tone he might use to discuss the weather that he had decided my wife would become his concubine.

She was to move to his quarters within the week and serve him as he saw fit.

I stood there in complete shock, unable to process what I had just heard.

This was my father, my king, the man I had respected and obeyed my entire life.

Surely he was testing me somehow or speaking hypothetically about some political situation.

But when I looked into his eyes, I saw only cold determination.

He was completely serious.

When I tried to protest to remind him that she was my wife, he cut me off with a harsh laugh.

He quoted verses from the Quran about a father’s authority over his household and reminded me that as king his word was law.

He told me that Islamic Jewish prudence gave him the right to do whatever he deemed necessary for the good of the kingdom and that my personal feelings were irrelevant.

“My wife was beautiful and intelligent,” he said, and he wanted her for himself.

The room felt like it was spinning around me.

I wanted to scream, to strike him, to demand justice, but I knew that any sign of rebellion would result in immediate imprisonment or death.

In Saudi Arabia, challenging the king’s authority is treason, and being his son would not protect me from the consequences.

I had seen what happened to others who opposed him.

they simply disappeared.

I asked him how he could justify such an action under Islamic law, grasping for any argument that might change his mind.

He smiled coldly and explained that since he was the ultimate religious authority in our kingdom, his interpretation of Islamic law was final.

He cited historical examples of caiffs and kings who had taken wives from their subordinates when it served their purposes.

He reminded me that the prophet Muhammad himself had married the divorced wife of his adopted son, proving that family relationships could be rearranged when Allah willed it.

When I left his chambers, I felt like I was walking through a nightmare.

How could I tell my wife that the man who was supposed to protect our family was about to destroy it? How could I explain that our three years of happiness meant nothing to him? I found her in our private garden reading a book and enjoying the afternoon sun.

She looked up at me with such love and trust that I nearly broke down right there.

I told her everything and I watched the color drain from her face as she absorbed the reality of our situation.

She asked if there was anything we could do, any appeal we could make, any escape route available to us.

I had to tell her the truth that I was still struggling to accept myself.

We were trapped.

My father held absolute power and we had no choice but to comply or face death.

The next few days were the longest of my life.

My wife moved to a guest room as we both tried to prepare mentally for what was coming.

We barely spoke because every conversation led back to our impossible situation.

She would cry quietly when she thought I wasn’t looking.

And I would lie awake at night planning elaborate revenge scenarios that I knew I could never carry out.

I threw myself into Islamic prayers with desperate intensity, begging Allah to intervene and stop this injustice.

I spent hours in the mosque prostrating myself and reciting every verse I could remember about justice and protection of the innocent.

I consulted with several imams carefully describing our situation in hypothetical terms hoping they would give me some religious argument I could use against my father.

Instead, every imam I spoke with confirmed my father’s authority.

They explained that earthly rulers were appointed by Allah and that questioning their decisions was tantamount to questioning God’s will.

One elderly imam told me that sometimes Allah tests our faith by allowing difficult things to happen and our job is to submit and trust that he knows best.

Another suggested that perhaps my attachment to my wife was too strong and that this trial would help me focus more completely on my religious duties.

These conversations left me feeling more hopeless than ever.

The very faith I had been raised to believe in was being used to justify the destruction of my family.

Every prayer I offered seemed to bounce off the ceiling and return unanswered.

The Islamic teachings that were supposed to provide comfort and guidance felt hollow and meaningless when applied to my real situation.

A week after my father’s announcement, my wife moved to his quarters.

I was forced to maintain normal appearances, attending state functions and carrying out my royal duties while my world collapsed around me.

Palace staff who had served our family for years looked at me with pity they tried to hide.

Some seemed to approve, nodding knowingly as if this was simply the natural order of things.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine having to smile and make polite conversation while the person you love most is being systematically destroyed by someone you trusted completely.

Every night I would see my father’s satisfied expression at dinner, knowing what he was taking from me in private.

Every morning I would catch glimpses of my wife in the corridors, watching her become more withdrawn and broken with each passing day.

The Islamic prayers that had once given structure and meaning to my life became empty rituals.

I went through the motions because stopping would raise suspicions.

But I felt nothing.

The God I had worshiped my entire life seemed either powerless to help us or completely indifferent to our suffering.

After months of desperate prayers and consultations with religious authorities, I was forced to accept a terrible truth.

Islam had no answer for my situation except submission to injustice.

After months of watching my wife suffer in silence and receiving no answers from Islamic prayers, I reached a point of complete desperation.

The traditional solutions had failed me entirely.

Every imam I consulted, every verse I memorized, every prayer I offered seemed to lead nowhere but deeper into hopelessness.

It was during those dark winter nights of 2018 that I began to do something that could have cost me my life.

I started researching other religions.

The palace had strict internet monitoring, but I had learned ways to access certain sites without detection during my years of managing various government projects.

Late at night when the rest of the palace slept, I would lock myself in my private office and search for anything that might offer hope.

I read about Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism, and various philosophical systems.

But nothing resonated with me until I stumbled across Christian websites.

The first thing that struck me about Christianity was how different Jesus seemed from every religious figure I had ever studied.

In Islam, we were taught that Jesus was a prophet.

But we knew very little about his actual teachings or personality.

As I read the gospels for the first time, I was amazed by story after story of Jesus defending the oppressed, protecting women from abuse, and standing up to corrupt religious leaders.

In Matthew’s gospel, I read about Jesus confronting the Pharisees for their hypocrisy and their abuse of power.

In John’s gospel, I found the story of the woman caught in adultery where Jesus protected her from men who wanted to stone her to death.

These stories spoke directly to my situation in ways that Islamic teachings never had.

Here was a religious leader who actually defended victims instead of demanding their submission to injustice.

I began spending hours each night reading Christian testimonies online.

I found story after story of people who had been in impossible situations and found supernatural help through faith in Jesus Christ.

Former Muslims shared accounts of dramatic interventions, protection from persecution, and miraculous escapes from oppressive circumstances.

At first, I dismissed these as exaggerations or outright lies, but the sheer number of similar stories began to make me wonder.

What captivated me most was the Christian concept of a personal relationship with God.

In Islam, Allah felt distant and unapproachable, someone to fear and obey, but never to question or approach with intimate concerns.

The idea that Jesus actually wanted to hear about my personal problems and cared about my individual suffering was completely foreign to everything I had been taught.

Islamic theology emphasized submission and acceptance of whatever Allah decreed.

But Christianity seemed to encourage believers to bring their requests and even their complaints directly to God.

I discovered Christian teachings about justice that were radically different from what I had learned in Islamic Jewish prudence.

Where Islamic law seemed to always favor those in authority, Christian teaching consistently sided with victims of oppression.

Jesus himself had said that whatever we do to the least of these, we do to him.

The idea that God identified with victims rather than with powerful rulers was revolutionary to my thinking.

But reading about Christianity was incredibly dangerous.

In Saudi Arabia, converting from Islam is punishable by death, and even possessing Christian materials can result in severe punishment.

I had to be extremely careful about my internet searches and reading habits.

I used various techniques to hide my digital footprints and always cleared my browser history completely.

The fear of discovery was constant.

But my desperation for answers was stronger than my fear.

After several weeks of secret research, I made a decision that terrified me.

I decided to share what I was learning with my wife.

She had become so withdrawn and depressed that I was genuinely worried about her mental health.

When we did manage to have private conversations, she would speak about feeling completely abandoned by God and questioning everything we had been taught about faith and justice.

One evening in late November, I found her sitting alone in the small sitting room adjacent to our former bedroom.

My father was away on a diplomatic trip which gave us a rare opportunity to talk privately.

I sat down beside her and told her that I had been researching other religions, specifically Christianity.

Her initial reaction was pure terror.

She reminded me that what I was doing could get us both killed and she begged me to stop before someone discovered my activities.

But when I began sharing some of the specific things I had learned about Jesus, her fear gradually gave way to curiosity.

I told her about Jesus’s teachings on marriage and how he had defended the sanctity of the relationship between husband and wife.

I shared stories of how he had protected women from abuse and stood against corrupt religious authorities.

For the first time in months, I saw a spark of hope return to her eyes.

We began studying Christian materials together in complete secrecy.

We would wait until the palace was quiet, then read passages from the Bible and Christian testimonies on my hidden internet connection.

We had to be incredibly careful, taking turns, keeping watch, and always being ready to hide what we were doing if anyone approached.

The more we learned about Christianity, the more we began to understand that our situation was not something we had to simply accept as God’s will.

Christian teaching suggested that God actually opposed injustice and worked to protect victims.

The idea that we could actually pray for deliverance and expect God to respond was completely foreign to our Islamic upbringing.

But it began to offer us hope we had not felt in months.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever been so desperate that you were willing to risk everything for even the possibility of hope? That was where we found ourselves as we delve deeper into Christian faith.

We knew that what we were doing was dangerous beyond measure.

But we also knew that continuing to live in our current situation was slowly destroying both of us.

We were about to discover that some risks are worth taking when they lead to truth.

By December of 2018, my wife and I had been secretly studying Christian materials for over a month.

We had read countless testimonies of Muslims who had found Jesus Christ and experienced miraculous interventions in their lives.

These stories filled us with hope, but we still struggled with the enormity of what it would mean to actually pray to Jesus.

In Islamic teaching, calling on anyone other than Allah is sherk, the unforgivable sin.

We both knew that what we were contemplating could damn us eternally according to everything we had been taught our entire lives.

Continue reading….
Next »