Saudi Prince Removed a Cross Then The Cross Shocked Him by Crying | TESTIMONY

Saudi Prince Removed a Cross Then The Cross Shocked Him by Crying

If your Jesus is real, let them perform A MIRACLE.

YEAH, YOUR JESUS IS FALSE.

WHERE IS YOUR MIRACLE NOW? SEE, NO [screaming] MIRACLE.

MY NAME IS FADL AL-MUTAIRI, [clears throat] and for most of my life, I believed I understood truth.

I was raised in Riyadh in a disciplined home where obedience was not questioned and faith was not explored.

It was inherited.

My father was a respected man, loyal to authority, and I followed in his path without hesitation.

>> [music] >> When the call came that I had been selected to accompany a Saudi prince on a special assignment, [music] I did not ask questions.

You don’t ask questions when power calls your name, you respond.

That was how I found myself standing outside an old stone church on the outskirts of a quiet Iranian town.

Hello, amazing viewers from around the world.

God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

Before our brother Fadl continues his testimony, we would like you to comment where you’re watching from, and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you, and may God bless you.

My name is Fadl al-Mutairi, and for most of my life, I believed I understood truth.

I was raised in Riyadh in a disciplined home where obedience was not questioned and faith was not explored.

It was inherited.

My father was a respected man, loyal to authority, and I followed in his path without hesitation.

When the call came that I had been selected to accompany a Saudi prince on a special assignment, I did not ask questions.

You don’t ask questions when power calls your name, you respond.

That was how I found myself standing outside old stone church on the outskirts of a quiet Iranian town.

Just before sunset on what I later learned was Easter Sunday, I remember the air that evening.

It was calm, too calm.

The kind of silence that feels like something is watching, waiting.

Fadl, one of the men beside me muttered, adjusting his white garment.

Why here? Why today? I shrugged, trying to appear confident.

Orders are orders, but inside, something felt off.

The prince arrived moments later, stepping out of a black vehicle, his presence commanding as always.

He was not a man used to resistance, tall, composed.

His eyes carried a certainty that made others fall in line without a word.

This ends tonight, he said, his voice low but firm.

We remove that symbol and make it clear there is no power in it.

We all nodded.

No one argued.

No one dared.

We entered the church together.

The moment I stepped inside, something shifted in me.

It wasn’t fear, not yet.

It was unfamiliarity.

The place was simple but carried a strange weight.

Stone walls, wooden pews, and at the center, an altar.

Candles flickered gently, and behind it stood the cross.

There were people inside, men, women, even children.

They turned as we entered, their voices falling silent.

I saw confusion in their eyes, then fear.

A woman clutched her child closer.

An old man stood slowly, his hands trembling.

Please, he said softly, stepping forward.

This is a sacred service.

The prince didn’t even look at him.

Remove it, he ordered.

Two men stepped forward immediately, pushing past the front pews.

The congregation began murmuring.

Stop.

Please, don’t.

This is holy.

Their voices rose, but they were powerless.

I stood still for a moment, my eyes fixed on the cross.

It was larger than I expected, wooden, worn, and there was a figure on it, Jesus.

I had seen crosses before, but never like this, never in a place where people actually believed.

Fadl, one of the men snapped.

Move.

I shook myself and stepped forward, joining them at the altar.

Up close, I could see the details, the carved figure, the expression on its face.

There was pain there, but also something else, something I couldn’t explain.

Take it down, the prince said again, impatience creeping into his tone.

We grabbed the cross.

It was heavier than it looked.

As we pulled it loose, the congregation began to cry out louder now.

Don’t do this.

God sees you.

Leave it.

One woman dropped to her knees, weeping openly.

I felt irritation rise in me.

Why were they acting like this piece of wood mattered? With a final tug, the cross came loose.

We carried it down and let it fall against the altar with a dull, heavy sound.

The prince stepped closer, his expression unreadable.

So, this, he said slowly, is what you place your hope in? No one answered.

The silence was thick.

Then he laughed, not loudly, but enough to cut through the room like a blade.

If your Jesus is real, he said, his voice now rising, mocking, let him defend himself.

A few of the men chuckled nervously.

I felt a strange tension in my chest.

Something about this didn’t feel right, but pride kept me rooted.

The prince turned to us.

Throw it down.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then one of the men stepped forward, lifting the cross again.

I hesitated, but followed.

Together, we dragged it forward, and then we threw it to the ground.

The sound echoed through the church, a sharp crack of wood against stone.

The room went completely silent.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Even the air felt frozen.

I remember looking at my hands, then at the cross lying on the ground, and that’s when it happened.

First, I thought it was my imagination, a sound, faint, almost like a whisper.

I frowned, glancing around.

Did you? Then it came again, clearer this time, a voice, not from anyone in the room, not from the prince, not from the congregation.

It was coming from the cross.

My heart began to pound.

No, I whispered under my breath.

The others heard it, too.

I saw it in their faces, fear, real fear.

The voice grew stronger, broken, filled with pain, and then it spoke words that would shatter everything I thought I knew.

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.

The room exploded into chaos.

A woman screamed.

One of the men stumbled backward, nearly falling.

Did you hear that? That’s not possible.

The prince froze, his face drained of color.

Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Those words, they weren’t just sounds.

They carried something, weight, authority, mercy, and somehow they felt directed at me, at us.

Run, someone shouted, and just like that, the courage we thought we had vanished.

Men who had walked in with power and confidence now turned and fled like children in the dark.

I ran, too.

I didn’t look back, couldn’t.

But as I crossed the threshold of that church, one thought burned into my mind.

What if we were wrong? That night I did not sleep because the voice didn’t stay in that church, followed me, and it would not let me go.

I did not sleep that night, not even for a moment.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again, the cross hitting the ground, the silence, and then that voice.

It wasn’t just what I heard, it was what I felt.

Those words didn’t echo in my ears, they carved themselves into something deeper.

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.

Forgive us.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall of the dimly lit room we had been assigned.

The others were in nearby rooms, but I could hear movement, restlessness, pacing, doors opening and closing.

I wasn’t the only one shaken.

There’s a kind of fear you can explain, and then there’s the kind that has no language.

This was the second.

I stood up and splashed water on my face, gripping the edges of the sink as I looked at my reflection.

Get yourself together, Fadl, I muttered.

It was a trick, something staged.

But even as I said it, I knew I didn’t believe it.

No trick carries that kind of weight.

No illusion speaks into your soul.

A sudden knock on my door made me jump.

Fadl, a voice whispered urgently.

Open.

It was Yasser, one of the men who had stood closest to me when we threw the cross down.

I opened the door quickly.

He slipped inside and shut it behind him, his eyes darting like someone being hunted.

You heard it, too, he said, not asking, confirming.

I nodded slowly.

We stood in silence for a moment.

Then he spoke again, his voice lower now.

It’s still happening.

My chest tightened.

What do you mean? He swallowed hard.

The voice, I keep hearing it.

Not loud, not like before, but it’s there, like it’s inside my head.

A chill ran through me because I knew exactly what he meant.

It doesn’t stop, I said quietly.

Yasser ran his hands through his hair.

What was that, Fadl? What did we touch? I didn’t have an answer, and for the first time in my life, that terrified me more than anything else.

The next morning, we were summoned to meet the prince.

No one spoke on the way there.

The usual confidence, the quiet pride we carried, it was gone, replaced by something heavy and unspoken.

When we entered the room, the prince was already there, standing, still, silent.

He looked different.

Not weak.

No, he would never allow that.

But there was something behind his eyes.

Something unsettled.

You will not speak of what happened.

He said immediately, his tone sharp.

No greeting.

No acknowledgement.

Just command.

It was nothing more than a psychological reaction.

He continued, “You allowed the environment to affect your senses.

” I exchanged a glance with Yasser.

Psychological? No, that was not in our minds.

“You will forget it.

” the prince added, his gaze sweeping across us.

“Do you understand?” We all nodded, but it was a lie because forgetting was impossible.

Later that day, I tried to return to normal.

I walked through the streets, forcing myself to observe ordinary life.

People talking, merchants selling, children playing.

I told myself that reality hadn’t changed, but something inside me had.

Every sound felt sharper.

Every silence felt louder.

And then, I heard it again.

Not with my ears, but within.

“Forgive them.

” I stopped in my tracks.

A man bumped into me, muttering an apology, but I barely noticed.

Why would those words follow me? We had mocked.

We had disrespected.

We had thrown it down like it meant nothing.

So, why forgiveness? It didn’t make sense.

If what we did was wrong, then shouldn’t there be judgement? Anger? Punishment? But that voice carried none of that.

Only mercy.

And that disturbed me more than fear ever could.

That evening, I found myself doing something I never thought I would do.

I went back.

Back to the church.

I don’t know what pulled me there.

Curiosity? Confusion? Maybe something deeper.

The doors were slightly open.

I hesitated before stepping inside.

The church was quiet now.

Empty.

Or so I thought.

As I walked in slowly, I saw someone near the altar.

An old man.

The same one who had spoken to us the day before.

He turned as he heard my footsteps.

For a moment, we just stared at each other.

I expected anger.

I deserved it.

But instead, his expression softened.

“You came back.

” he said gently.

I didn’t respond.

My eyes moved to the altar.

The cross was there again.

Repaired.

Standing.

How? I started then stopped.

The old man followed my gaze.

“We put it back.

” he said simply.

I stepped closer, my heart pounding.

“Yesterday,” I said slowly, “what happened?” He didn’t let me finish.

“You heard him.

” It wasn’t a question.

I looked at him sharply.

“No, that’s not possible.

” He smiled faintly, not mocking, not proud, just certain.

“Many heard his voice when he was on the cross.

” he said.

“Why is it strange that he speaks again?” I shook my head.

“No, that was something else.

It couldn’t be.

” But even as I argued, my voice lacked conviction.

The old man stepped closer, his eyes steady.

“What did he say?” he asked.

I hesitated.

Then, almost against my will, I whispered, “Father, forgive them.

” The man nodded slowly, finishing the sentence.

“For they do not know what they are doing.

” Silence filled the space between us.

“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He looked at the cross.

“Because those were his words when he was dying.

” My breath caught.

Dying? For who? I asked, confusion rising.

The old man looked back at me.

“For you.

” he said.

I stepped back immediately.

“No.

” I said, shaking my head.

“No, that’s not But the words wouldn’t come.

“For me?” I repeated.

It didn’t make sense.

Why would someone die for me? Why would someone forgive me before I even asked? I felt something rising inside me.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Something unfamiliar.

Something dangerous.

Truth.

“I shouldn’t be here.

” I said quickly, turning away.

But as I reached the door, the old man’s voice stopped me.

“He saw you yesterday.

” I froze.

“He knew you would be there.

” the man continued.

“And still, he chose those words.

” I didn’t turn around.

Couldn’t.

Because deep inside, a question had begun to form.

One I wasn’t ready to face.

What if that voice was real? And if it was, what does that mean for me? I did not return to the church the next day, or the day after that.

But the truth is, I never really left it.

Because something from that place had followed me and settled inside me like a fire I could neither control nor extinguish.

I tried to bury it.

I immersed myself in routine, in discipline, in everything I had always trusted to keep my mind steady.

I prayed the way I had been taught.

I recited words I had known since childhood.

I surrounded myself with familiarity, but it was no use because now every time I spoke, I felt a question behind my own voice.

And every time I was silent, I heard his, “Forgive them.

” Those words had begun to disturb me in a new way.

Not as a memory, but as a confrontation.

Three nights after the incident, I finally broke.

It was past midnight.

The city was quiet, wrapped in the kind of silence that forces a man to face himself.

I sat alone in my room, staring at my hands.

These same hands had helped tear the cross down.

These same hands had thrown it to the ground.

And yet, those words were not words of anger.

They were not words of revenge.

They were words of forgiveness.

“Why?” I whispered into the darkness.

“Why would you say that?” There was no immediate answer, but something stirred within me.

A memory.

The old man’s voice.

“He knew you would be there.

And still he chose those words.

” I stood up abruptly.

I couldn’t fight it anymore.

If there was something I didn’t understand, then I had to face it.

Even if it meant everything I believed would be shaken.

I returned to the church.

This time, I didn’t hesitate at the door.

I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The atmosphere felt different now.

Not unfamiliar.

Not heavy.

But waiting.

The old man was there again, as if he had been expecting me.

“You came back.

” he said softly.

I nodded, my throat tight.

“I need answers.

” He studied me for a moment, then gestured toward the front.

“Come.

” We sat on one of the wooden pews, facing the altar.

The cross stood there again.

Silent.

Still.

But now, I could not look at it the same way.

“What do you want to know?” the old man asked.

I took a deep breath.

“Why would someone say those words?” I asked, “after being mocked, beaten, killed?” My voice faltered slightly.

“Why forgive?” The old man didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he asked me a question.

“Fad, have you ever wronged someone?” I frowned.

“Of course.

Everyone has.

And when you did, what did you expect in return?” I thought for a moment.

“Consequences.

” I said, “Justice.

” He nodded slowly.

“Yes, that is the way of the world.

” His gaze shifted to the cross.

“But not the way of Christ.

” That name again.

Christ.

Jesus.

I felt tension rise in my chest.

“You speak as if he is more than a man.

” The old man looked at me, his eyes steady.

“He is.

” Silence stretched between us.

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to reject it.

But something inside me held back.

“Then explain it to me.

” I said, “because none of this makes sense.

” The old man leaned forward slightly, resting his hands together.

“Those words you heard,” he began, “were spoken at the moment of his greatest suffering.

” I listened, unable to look away.

“He was betrayed, arrested, beaten, humiliated, and nailed to a cross.

” Each word landed heavily.

And in that moment, when he had every reason to condemn, he chose to forgive.

“Why?” I asked again, more urgently this time.

“Because that is why he came.

” I shook my head.

“No, no, that doesn’t answer anything.

Why would anyone choose that?” The old man’s voice softened.

“Because love chooses what justice cannot.

” That sentence struck something deep inside me.

Love? For people who hated him? For people who killed him? It didn’t fit into anything I had ever understood.

“He wasn’t just forgiving them.

” the old man continued.

“He was carrying their wrong and yours.

” “My wrong?” I repeated, almost defensively.

“Yes.

” I stood up abruptly, pacing a few steps away.

“No, you don’t understand.

I wasn’t there.

I didn’t do that to him.

” The old man didn’t raise his voice, but his words followed me.

“And yet, you heard him speak to you.

” I stopped, my back still turned, my heart racing.

“Fad.

” he said gently.

“Why do you think those words came when you threw the cross down?” I didn’t answer because I was afraid of the answer.

Do you think it was coincidence? he asked.

Still, I said nothing.

Or do you think he continued, that you were meant to hear them? I turned slowly.

That doesn’t make sense.

I said, though my voice was weaker now.

Then why you? he asked.

That question hit harder than anything else.

Why me? Out of everyone in that room, why did those words follow me? I felt something begin to crack inside.

Something I had built my entire life on.

Certainty, control, identity.

What are you saying? I asked quietly.

The old man stood now, stepping closer.

I am saying that what you heard was not an accident.

My chest tightened.

I am saying that he called out to you.

My breath caught.

And I am saying he finished, his voice steady, that you now have a choice.

A choice.

The word echoed in my mind.

What choice? I asked.

He looked at me with a seriousness that made everything else fade.

To ignore what you heard and return to the life you knew.

A pause.

Or to seek the truth, no matter what it costs you.

The room fell silent again, but this silence was different.

It wasn’t empty.

It was full of weight.

Decision.

For the first time in my life, I realized something.

Truth is not always comfortable.

In fact, can cost you everything.

I looked at the cross once more, and this time, I didn’t see an object.

I saw a question.

One that refused to let me go.

What if he really meant those words for me? I did not make my decision that day, but something had already begun.

And whether I admitted it or not, I was no longer the same man who walked into that church with the prince.

The questions followed me everywhere.

Not loudly, not forcefully, but persistently, like a voice that refuses to be ignored.

The next few days became a battle within myself.

Outwardly, I remained the same, disciplined, composed, loyal.

I attended meetings, followed instructions, and kept my distance from anything that might expose what was happening inside me.

But inwardly, everything was shifting.

Every belief I had once accepted without question now stood before me, demanding explanation.

And at the center of it all was him.

Jesus.

I had heard his words, not read them, not been told them, heard them.

And no matter how hard I tried, I could not dismiss that.

One evening, I was summoned again.

The prince wanted to see us.

The moment I entered the room, I sensed tension.

Not the kind that comes from authority, but the kind that comes from something unresolved.

The prince stood by the window, his back to us.

Has anyone spoken about that night? he asked without turning.

No, your highness.

We answered in unison.

A pause.

Then he turned.

His eyes moved across each of us, sharp and searching.

Good.

he said, because what happened was nothing.

Nothing.

That word again.

But this time, it felt forced, like something he was trying to convince himself of.

You will not return to that place, he continued.

And you will not engage with those people again.

Is that understood? Yes, your highness.

Everyone answered, except me.

It wasn’t intentional, but for a brief second, I hesitated.

And he noticed.

His gaze locked onto mine.

Fahd.

My chest tightened.

Yes, your highness.

Is something unclear? I forced myself to respond.

No, your highness.

But he kept looking at me, as if he could see through the words into the conflict I was trying to hide.

Then say it, he demanded.

I understand.

The room fell silent again, but something had changed.

I had crossed a line, even if no one else fully saw it.

Because for the first time in my life, I had agreed outwardly, but doubted inwardly.

That night, I couldn’t stay away anymore.

I returned to the church.

I knew the risk.

If anyone saw me, if the prince found out, it would not end well.

But some things become more important than fear.

And for me, truth had become one of them.

The old man was there again.

This time, he didn’t seem surprised at all.

You are searching, he said as I approached.

I nodded.

I don’t understand what’s happening to me.

He smiled gently.

You are beginning to.

I sat down, exhaling deeply.

It’s like everything I thought was solid is breaking, I admitted.

And I don’t know what to hold onto anymore.

The old man sat beside me.

Sometimes, he said, before a man can receive truth, everything false must fall away.

His words hit me hard, because that’s exactly what it felt like.

Collapse, uncertainty, loss.

But what if I lose everything? I asked quietly.

He looked at me.

That depends on what you think you have.

Silence settled between us.

Then I spoke again.

If I choose this, if I believe what you’re saying, my voice lowered, I could lose my position, my family, my future.

The old man didn’t interrupt.

He let me speak.

They will see me as a traitor, I continued, as someone who abandoned everything.

I swallowed hard.

And maybe they would be right.

For the first time, doubt wasn’t just intellectual.

It was personal, costly, real.

The old man finally spoke.

Fahd, truth is not measured by what it costs you.

He paused.

But by what it is worth.

I looked at him, searching for certainty, but he didn’t give me comfort.

He gave me honesty.

And somehow, that was harder to accept.

Tell me something, I said after a long silence.

If he is who you say he is, then why me? The question had been growing inside me for days.

I was part of those who mocked him, I continued.

I helped bring that cross down.

I disrespected everything you believe in.

My voice tightened.

So why would he reach out to me? The old man’s answer came without hesitation.

Because you needed him.

I shook my head slightly.

There are better people.

Better according to who? he asked.

I didn’t respond.

Fahd, he said gently.

He didn’t come for the perfect.

He came for the lost.

Lost.

That word lingered.

I had never seen myself that way before.

Strong, disciplined, certain.

But now, now I wasn’t so sure.

The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn book.

He handed it to me.

I hesitated before taking it.

A Bible, he said.

I stared at it.

This was something I had been taught to avoid, to reject, to dismiss.

But now, I was holding it in my hands.

Start with the words of Jesus, he said.

Not what others say about him.

My fingers tightened slightly around the book.

What if I read it and everything changes? I asked.

The old man smiled faintly.

Then you will finally see.

I left the church that night with more than I came with.

Not answers, not certainty, but something more dangerous.

Truth within reach.

Back in my room, I sat in silence for a long time.

The Bible lay on the table in front of me.

I stared at it as if it might move, as if something might happen the moment I opened it.

My heart was beating faster than it should.

This felt like a point of no return.

If I opened it, if I allowed myself to see, then I could no longer claim ignorance.

Then I would have to choose.

Slowly, I reached out.

My hand hovered for a moment, then I opened it.

The pages rustled softly, and my eyes fell on words written long before I was born.

But somehow, they felt like they were waiting for me.

That night, as I began to read, I realized something I could no longer deny.

The voice I heard in that church was not the end of my story.

It was the beginning.

And whether I was ready or not, I was being pulled towards something that would change everything.

I did not notice how much time had passed.

The room was silent.

The world outside forgotten.

As I sat with the Bible open in my hands, at first, I read cautiously, like a man stepping onto unfamiliar ground, expecting it to give way beneath him.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it held me.

Every word felt different from what I expected.

Not distant, not confusing, but direct, personal.

It was as if the voice I had heard in the church had taken form, and was now speaking through these pages.

I read about his words, his actions, his mercy.

And then, I found it.

The moment.

The cross.

My breathing slowed as my eyes moved across the page.

The suffering, the mocking, the pain.

And then those same words.

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.

My chest tightened.

There it was.

Exactly as I had heard it.

Not imagined, not invented, written long before that night.

I leaned back slowly, my mind racing.

This was real.

What I heard was real, and if that was true, then everything else could be true, too.

I didn’t sleep again that night, but this time it wasn’t fear that kept me awake.

It was clarity, and clarity can be just as overwhelming because now I understood something I had been resisting.

Those words were not random.

They were not just history.

They were not just a moment in time.

They were spoken with intention, and somehow they had reached me.

The next morning I made my decision.

Not because everything made sense.

Not because I had all the answers, but because I could no longer deny the truth I had seen.

I returned to the church one last time.

The sun was just rising, casting soft light through the windows.

The place felt peaceful.

Almost as if it had been waiting for this moment.

The old man was there as always.

He looked at me, and this time he didn’t ask any questions.

He already knew.

“You have chosen.

” He said quietly.

I nodded.

My throat felt tight, but my heart felt steady.

“I can’t explain everything.

” I admitted.

“I still have questions.

I still have fears.

” I paused.

“But I know what I heard.

I know what I’ve read, and I know I can’t go back to who I was.

” The old man smiled, not with surprise, but with understanding.

“That is how it begins.

” I stepped closer to the altar.

The cross stood there.

The same cross we had thrown down.

The same cross that had spoken.

But now I saw it differently.

Not as an object, but as a symbol of something I was only beginning to understand.

Sacrifice, mercy, love.

“I don’t know how to do this.

” I said, my voice low.

“I don’t know the right words.

” The old man’s voice was gentle.

“Speak from your heart.

” I closed my eyes.

For the first time in my life I wasn’t repeating something I had been taught.

I was speaking honestly.

“Jesus.

” I began, hesitating slightly at his name.

Even saying it felt like crossing a line I could never uncross.

“I don’t fully understand who you are.

” My voice trembled slightly, but I know you are real.

A deep breath.

“I heard you.

I felt it.

And I can’t ignore it anymore.

” The silence around me felt different now.

Not empty, but listening.

“If those words were for me.

” I continued.

“Then I need that forgiveness.

” My chest tightened because I didn’t know what I was doing.

The weight of that truth hit me fully for the first time.

Not just what I did in that church, but everything.

The pride, the certainty, the blindness.

I was wrong.

” I whispered.

“And I don’t want to stay that way.

” Tears I didn’t expect began to form in my eyes.

“I don’t know what this will cost me.

” I admitted.

“But I choose the truth.

” A pause.

Then quietly, “I choose you.

” For a moment nothing happened.

No voice.

No sound.

No dramatic sign.

Just stillness.

But within that stillness something changed.

Not around me, inside me.

The fear that had gripped me for days began to loosen.

The confusion began to settle, and in its place there was peace.

Not loud.

Not overwhelming, but real.

I opened my eyes slowly.

The church looked the same.

The cross stood where it had always been.

The old man watched quietly, but I knew I was not the same.

“You have taken your first step.

” The old man said softly.

I nodded.

“What happens now?” I asked.

He smiled gently.

“Now you walk.

” But the truth is walking would not be easy because outside those walls my world had not changed.

The prince had not changed.

The expectations, the consequences, the risks, they were all still there, and I knew eventually I would have to face them.

As I stepped out of the church that morning, the sunlight hit my face.

For the first time in days I didn’t feel like I was running, but I also knew this was only the beginning because choosing truth is one thing.

Living it is another.

I am Fadhel Muttary.

I was there the night we mocked the cross.

I was there when it spoke, and I was one of the men who ran away in fear.

But today I stand not as the man I was, but as someone who heard a voice of forgiveness and chose to follow it.

And that is how my story truly began.