Saudi Prince Ordered to Execute Muslim Imam for Praising Jesus BUT THEN JESUS INTERVEND


My name is Shahid.

I’m 34 years old.

On February 11th, 2023, I was ordered to execute a man for praising Jesus Christ.

For 15 years, I served as an enforcer for a Saudi prince, carrying out death sentences without question.

That day changed everything I believed about God forever.

The call came on a Tuesday morning while I was drinking my usual black coffee in my sparse apartment overlooking the city.

The prince’s voice carried that familiar tone of cold authority that I had learned to obey without question over the past 15 years.

His words were precise and deliberate, cutting through the morning silence like a blade.

“Shahid, there is a situation that requires your immediate attention,” he said.

his voice betraying no emotion.

We have an imam who has forgotten his place and his faith.

He needs to be reminded of both permanently.

I set my coffee down and reached for the notepad I always kept by the phone.

This was routine.

Over the years, I had become the prince’s most trusted enforcer, the one he called when religious violations demanded the ultimate punishment.

My reputation for efficiency and discretion had made me indispensable to his operations.

“What is the violation?” I asked, already mentally preparing for another execution.

The process had become mechanical for me.

Receive the assignment, locate the target, carry out the sentence, report back.

Clean, simple, final.

This Imam has been secretly teaching about Jesus Christ in his mosque, the prince continued, his voice growing harder with each word.

Multiple witnesses have reported that he called Jesus the son of God during his teachings.

Is he has been telling his followers that Jesus is the true path to salvation.

The words hit me differently than usual religious violation reports.

Most of our targets were guilty of theft from mosque funds, adultery, or speaking against the royal family.

But this was different.

This was about Jesus, a figure I had been taught to respect as a prophet, nothing more.

Witnesses saw him prostrating before a cross he had hidden behind his prayer rug.

The prince added, “His disgust evident.

He told his followers that Jesus died for their sins and rose from the dead.

This blasphemy cannot be tolerated.

I scribbled down the details, my hand moving automatically across the paper.

The imam’s name was Hassan al-maki, and he led prayers at a small mosque in the eastern district of the city.

He was 57 years old, married with three children, and and had served his community faithfully for over 20 years before this apparent deviation.

The execution must be public enough to send a message, but discreet enough to avoid unwanted attention, the prince instructed.

Use the desert site.

Make it clear that this is the consequence of abandoning our faith for foreign deceptions.

I had carried out 43 executions for the prince over my 15-year career.

Each one was justified in my mind as service to Allah and protection of our religious purity.

I never questioned the orders because I believed completely in the righteousness of our cause.

Heretics and blasphemers threatened the spiritual well-being of our entire community.

The prince’s trust in me was absolute, and I had never failed to complete an assignment.

My methods were efficient and my loyalty unquestionable.

When he needed someone eliminated quietly and permanently, I was his first and only call.

When do you want this completed? I asked, already planning the logistics in my head.

The desert execution site was 30 minutes outside the city, isolated enough for privacy, but accessible enough for quick disposal afterward.

Today, the prince replied without hesitation, “Every moment this man continues to breathe, he spreads his poison to more faithful believers.

I want him dead before sunset.

” I felt a familiar surge of purpose flow through me.

This was my calling, my service to God and country.

I had been chosen for this work because of my unwavering commitment to our religious laws and my ability to carry them out without mercy or hesitation.

After hanging up, I began my usual preparation routine.

I checked my weapon, a curved blade that had been blessed by religious authorities and used only for executions of this nature.

I changed into my formal enforcement robes, the ones that marked me as an official representative of religious justice.

As I drove through the city toward the Eastern District, I reflected on my 15 years of service.

I had started this work as a young man of 19 recruited by the prince himself after demonstrating exceptional loyalty during a minor religious dispute in my neighborhood.

My first execution had been difficult, my hands shaking as I carried out the sentence.

But over time, I had learned to see it as a sacred duty, no different from a surgeon removing a cancer.

The people I executed were threats to our community’s spiritual health.

They spread false teachings, corrupted the faithful, and undermined the religious order that kept our society stable.

By eliminating them, I was protecting countless innocent believers from spiritual contamination.

This Imam, Hassan Al- Maki, was no different.

He had chosen to abandon the pure teachings of Islam for the corrupted message of Christianity.

He was leading his followers away from truth and toward damnation.

My job was to stop that process before it could spread further.

Yet something about this assignment felt different as I navigated the crowded streets toward his mosque.

Perhaps it was the nature of his teaching about Jesus.

Or maybe it was the fact that he had served his community faithfully for two decades before this deviation.

Usually our targets were obviously corrupt or morally bankrupt individuals whose elimination felt clearly justified.

But I pushed these doubts aside as I had been trained to do.

Doubt was the enemy of decisive action and decisive action was what kept our community pure.

The prince’s judgment was absolute, and my job was execution, not evaluation.

I had no idea that this assignment would be my last, or that the man I was sent to kill would become the instrument of my own spiritual awakening.

The mosque stood in the eastern district like a small jewel among the dusty buildings, its modest minoret reaching toward the afternoon sky.

I had expected to find a den of corruption, a place obviously tainted by heretical teaching.

Instead, I discovered a simple, clean house of worship that looked identical to hundreds of others throughout the city.

I parked my vehicle across the street and observed the building for several minutes.

A few elderly men emerged from the main entrance, their faces peaceful and content after afternoon prayers.

Children played in the small courtyard while their mothers chatted quietly near the entrance.

Everything appeared normal, even holy.

This normaly disturbed me more than obvious corruption would have.

It meant that Hassan al-maki was a skilled deceiver, spreading his poison while maintaining the appearance of faithful Islamic leadership.

The most dangerous heretics were always the ones who could blend seamlessly into righteous communities.

I entered through the main doors during the quiet period between afternoon and evening prayers.

The interior was spotless with intricate geometric patterns decorating the walls and soft carpet covering the floor.

The smell of incense lingered in the air is mixed with the faint scent of rose water used for cleaning.

Hassan al-Maki knelt alone near the mab, the ornate niche that indicated the direction of Mecca.

His back was to me as he performed what appeared to be standard Islamic prayer movements.

He was a thin man with a carefully maintained beard that had gone completely gray.

His white prayer robes were simple but immaculately clean.

I stood silently near the entrance watching him complete his prayers.

Something about his posture struck me as different from other imams I had observed.

There was an unusual peace in his movements, a gentleness that seemed to radiate outward from his entire being.

When he finished and turned to face me, I was completely unprepared for his expression.

His eyes held a warmth and joy that I had never seen in anyone facing execution.

Uh, most of my targets either begged for mercy or raged against their fate.

A few tried to run, but this man simply looked at me with what I can only describe as love.

“Assalamu alaykum, my brother,” he said, rising gracefully to his feet.

“I have been expecting you.

” His calm greeting caught me off guard.

How could he have been expecting me when my assignments were always classified? Had someone warned him about the prince’s decision? Was this some kind of trap? “You are Hassan Al-Maki,” I stated, my hand moving instinctively toward my concealed weapon.

“I am here on behalf of the prince.

” “Yes, I know who you are and why you have come,” he replied with that same inexplicable peace.

You are Shahid and you have been sent to execute me for my teachings about Jesus Christ.

The fact that he knew my name sent a chill through my body in I was always careful to maintain anonymity during my assignments.

Only the prince and a few trusted advisers knew my real identity.

Yet this imam spoke my name as if we were old friends.

“How do you know who I am?” I demanded, my voice sharper than intended.

Who told you I was coming? Hassan smiled gently and gestured toward the prayer rug scattered across the floor.

Please sit with me for a moment before you carry out your orders.

I would like to speak with you about why I must die.

This request violated every protocol I had developed over 15 years of executions.

I never engaged in conversation with my targets beyond the minimum necessary to confirm their identity.

personal interaction made the work more difficult and served no useful purpose.

Yet something about his tone compelled me to comply.

I sat cross-legged on a prayer rug facing him, keeping my hand near my weapon while trying to understand why this felt so different from every other assignment.

“You want to know how I knew you were coming?” he said, his voice carrying a strange mixture of sadness and joy.

The answer will disturb you, my brother.

Jesus Christ told me in a dream three nights ago.

I felt my jaw tighten at this obvious lie.

Jesus is a prophet, nothing more.

He cannot speak to anyone because he is dead and has been for 2,000 years.

That is what I believed for most of my life.

Hassan replied, his eyes never leaving mine.

But Jesus is not dead, Shahid.

He died for our sins and rose from the grave on the third day.

He lives now in heaven and he speaks to those who have ears to hear.

The blasphemy was worse than the prince had described.

This man was not just teaching heretical ideas about Jesus being divine.

He was claiming direct revelation from a dead prophet.

The corruption ran deeper than anyone had realized.

“You will announce your sentence now,” I said, standing up and reaching for my weapon.

You have been found guilty of blasphemy and teaching false doctrine.

The penalty is death.

Hassan remained seated, his expression unchanged by my announcement.

I understand and I accept my fate gladly.

But before you carry out the prince’s orders, I have one request.

You are in no position to make requests, I replied, though something in his voice made me hesitate.

I ask only for permission to pray one final time, he said, his hands folded peacefully in his lap.

Surely even a condemned heretic deserves that much mercy.

Every execution protocol demanded that I refuse such requests.

Delays created opportunities for escape or rescue.

The longer I spent with any target, the greater the chance of complications.

But Hassan showed no intention of fleeing and his request seemed reasonable enough.

“You have 5 minutes,” I said, checking my watch.

“Make your peace with Allah quickly.

” “Thank you for your kindness,” Hassan replied, returning to his kneeling position facing the Mi.

But instead of reciting the familiar Arabic prayers I expected, he began speaking in a way that made my blood run cold.

Jesus, my Lord and Savior, I come to you now at the end of my earthly life, he said in clear conversational Arabic.

Thank you for the privilege of serving you these past 3 years since you opened my eyes to the truth.

This was not Islamic prayer.

This was direct conversation with Jesus Christ as if he were present in the room.

The intimacy and familiarity in Hassan’s voice revealed the depth of his heretical beliefs.

He truly believed that Jesus could hear and respond to his words.

As I listened to him pray, something began stirring inside me that I had never experienced before.

His words carried a power and authenticity that I could not deny.

Even as my mind rejected everything he was saying, the drive to the desert execution site took exactly 28 minutes, just as it always had.

I had made this journey so many times that my hands could navigate the winding dirt road without conscious thought.

Hassan sat beside me in complete silence.

His hands folded in his lap, staring out at the endless expanse of sand that stretched toward the horizon.

Most of my previous targets had used this final car ride to beg for their lives or curse their fate.

Some wept quietly, while others raged against the injustice of their situation.

A few tried to bargain with me, offering money or information in exchange for mercy.

But Hassan sat with the same inexplicable peace he had shown in the mosque, as if he were traveling to a wedding rather than his own execution.

The desert execution site was a small clearing surrounded by rocky outcroppings that provided natural privacy.

I had chosen this location years ago because it was completely isolated yet easily accessible by vehicle.

The sand was deep enough to absorb blood without leaving permanent stains, and the constant wind helped disperse any evidence within hours.

As we pulled into the familiar clearing, the sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and red.

The temperature had dropped slightly from the scorching heat of midday, but the air still shimmerred with residual warmth rising from the sand.

I had performed this ritual 43 times in this exact location.

The process was always identical.

Park the vehicle 20 m from the execution spot.

escort the target to the designated area, deliver the formal sentence, carry out the execution, dispose of the evidence, and return to the city to report completion.

Yet, as I turned off the engine and looked at Hassan’s serene profile, everything felt different.

There was an electricity in the air that I had never experienced before, a tension that had nothing to do with the approaching execution.

The desert which had always felt like my domain suddenly seemed foreign and unpredictable.

We have arrived, I announced, though Hassan had obviously noticed our stop.

Please step out of the vehicle.

Hassan opened his door and emerged gracefully, taking a moment to look around at the vast landscape surrounding us.

Instead of the fear or desperation I expected, his face showed something that looked almost like anticipation.

“This is a beautiful place to meet God,” he said quietly, breathing deeply of the desert air.

“Thank you for bringing me here.

” His gratitude unsettled me more than any pleading or cursing would have.

I had brought dozens of people to this place to die, and not one had ever thanked me for it.

Hassan seemed genuinely appreciative, as if I had done him a favor rather than sealing his doom.

I led him to the execution spot, a small depression in the sand that I had used countless times before.

The ground here was slightly lower than the surrounding area, which helped contain any mess and made cleanup more efficient.

Hassan walked beside me without restraint, showing no inclination to run despite the open terrain in every direction.

“Kneel here,” I instructed, pointing to the familiar spot where so many others had breathed their last breaths.

Face toward Mecca for your final moments.

“Hassan complied immediately, settling onto his knees with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to regular prayer.

But instead of facing east toward Mecca as I had directed, he oriented himself slightly north or toward the rocky outcropping where shadows were beginning to lengthen.

You are facing the wrong direction, I corrected, my voice carrying the authority of someone who had overseen many final prayers.

Mecca is to the east.

I know where Mecca is, my brother, Hassan replied gently, adjusting his position only slightly.

But I am not praying to Mecca.

I am praying to the one who created Mecca and everything else.

This final act of defiance should have angered me.

But instead, it filled me with a strange mixture of confusion and curiosity.

Hassan was about to die.

Yet he maintained his heretical beliefs.

Even in these last moments, his commitment to his false teachings was absolute, even unto death.

I withdrew my ceremonial blade, the same curved weapon I had used for every execution over the past 15 years.

The metal caught the dying sunlight and reflected it back in brilliant flashes.

The weight felt familiar and comfortable in my hand, an extension of my will and authority.

Hassan al-maki, I announced in the formal tone required for official executions.

You have been found guilty of blasphemy and teaching false doctrine contrary to the pure faith of Islam.

You have claimed that Jesus Christ is the son of God and have led faithful believers away from truth.

The penalty for these crimes is death.

Hassan bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, but said nothing in response to the charges.

His silence was not the silence of defeat or resignation, but rather the quiet confidence of someone who knew something I did not understand.

I raised the blade above my head by positioning it for the swift downward stroke that would end his life cleanly and efficiently.

This was the moment I had performed dozens of times before, the culmination of my service to God and the prince.

In a few seconds, another threat to our religious purity would be eliminated forever.

But as I prepared to bring the blade down, Hassan began to pray again.

Not the hurried, desperate prayers of a man facing death, but the same intimate conversation with Jesus that had disturbed me so deeply in the mosque.

Jesus, my Lord, I thank you for this opportunity to join you in suffering.

He said, his voice clear and strong despite his kneeling position.

Please forgive Shahid, for he does not know what he is doing.

And please, Lord, reveal yourself to him as you have revealed yourself to me.

His prayer for my forgiveness struck me like a physical blow.

No one I had ever executed had prayed for my well-being.

They cursed me, begged me, or ignored me.

But never once had anyone asked their God to bless the man about to kill them.

As Hassan continued praying to Jesus with increasing fervor, something began to change in the desert around us.

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