The sand I’d inhaled was suffocating me from the inside.

I needed air.

I needed to break through.

Up.

I had to go up.

I pushed with my legs, with my arms, with every ounce of strength.

The sand shifted around me.

I was moving inch by inch through the mass that had killed me.

Time lost meaning again.

Was it minutes, hours? I just kept moving, kept pushing, kept believing that somewhere above me was air and sky and life.

My hand broke through first.

The sensation of my fingers emerging into open air was euphoric.

I pushed harder, widening the gap.

My arm followed, then my head.

I burst through the surface of the grave, gasping, choking, vomiting sand.

My lungs convulsed, trying to expel the grains that filled them.

Each cough brought up more sand, more blood, more evidence of what my body had endured.

The night air hit my face, cool and clean.

I gulped it in desperately.

My damaged lungs protesting every breath, but it was air.

I was breathing.

I pulled myself fully out of the grave, collapsing on the surface beside the hole I’d been buried in.

The desert stretched around me in all directions, silent and vast under a sky full of stars.

I’d been dead.

My heart had stopped.

My lungs had stopped.

I’d left my body and met Jesus and made a choice to return.

And now I was alive.

I don’t know how long I lay there just breathing, just existing.

Minutes, maybe hours.

The shock of resurrection is profound.

Your brain can’t quite accept that you should be dead, but aren’t.

Eventually, survival instincts kicked in.

I was alive, but I was still in the middle of the desert with no water, no shelter, no idea which direction led to civilization.

If I didn’t move, I’d die again.

This time from exposure.

I tried to stand and immediately collapsed.

My legs wouldn’t hold me.

I’d been without oxygen for too long.

My muscles were damaged, weak.

I would have to crawl, so I crawled.

I chose a direction at random.

Or maybe not random.

Maybe I was guided.

I crawled across sand that caught at my abaya, over rocks that cut my hands and knees.

I crawled until my arms gave out, then rested, then crawled again.

Dawn was breaking when I saw them.

Lights in the distance.

A settlement of some kind.

With the last of my strength, I crawled toward those lights.

The Bedawin family found me collapsed at the edge of their camp as the sun rose fully over the horizon.

I learned later that they almost didn’t investigate.

The shape they saw in the distance could have been anything.

A dead animal, trash blown by the wind.

But the youngest son, a boy of about 12 named Amir, convinced his father to check.

They thought I was dead when they reached me.

I was covered in sand and blood, my skin gray, barely breathing.

The father, whose name was Ibrahim, later told me he actually checked for a pulse twice because the first time he found nothing.

But I was alive, barely, impossibly, but alive.

They carried me to their tent.

The women, Ibraims wife, Fatima, and their two daughters, stripped my sandcovered clothes and washed me with precious water.

They wrapped me in clean robes and fed me small sips of camel milk.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for 3 days.

When I was aware, I could hear them talking in hushed voices, wondering who I was, what had happened to me, whether I would live.

On the third day, I woke fully.

Fatima was beside me.

And when she saw my eyes openly, focused, she smiled and praised Allah.

You’re awake, little sister, she said gently.

We thought you might not make it.

I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, damaged from the sand.

She gave me water, which I sipped slowly.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“What happened to you?” I couldn’t tell her the truth.

“Not all of it.

These people were Muslims, traditional Bedawins who lived by ancient codes of honor.

If I told them my family had tried to kill me, they would feel obligated to contact authorities or possibly return me to my family.

If I told them I’d converted to Christianity, they might turn me out.

So, I lied.

Or rather, I told a partial truth.

My name is Leila, I said horsely.

I was attacked, robbed.

They left me in the desert to die.

Fatima’s face hardened with anger.

What kind of men attack a woman and leave her for dead? This is haram.

Forbidden by Allah.

They’re gone now.

I said, I just need time to heal.

Then I’ll leave.

I won’t burden your family.

Ibrahim, who had entered the tent, shook his head firmly.

You will stay as long as needed.

The desert code demands hospitality to those in need.

You are under our protection now.

And I was for 3 weeks I stayed with that Bedwin family.

They fed me, sheltered me, and asked no more questions about my past.

They assumed I was a victim of crime.

And in a way, I was.

During those weeks, I healed physically.

The cuts and bruises faded.

My lungs recovered.

Though I still coughed up sand occasionally, which terrified me each time.

My strength returned, but the question loomed.

What next? I couldn’t go home.

My family thought I was dead.

And if they learned I was alive, they would finish what they started.

I couldn’t stay with the Bedwins forever.

Eventually, they would ask questions I couldn’t answer.

I needed a plan.

One evening, as I sat outside the tent, watching the sunset paint the desert golden orange, young Amir sat beside me.

“You’re different,” he said simply.

My heart jumped.

“What do you mean? When you sleep, you talk.

You say a name.

” Yasu, the Arabic pronunciation of Jesus.

I went very still.

What else did I say? Nothing clear.

But my father says that when people nearly die, sometimes they see things, things from the other world.

Did you see something, Sister Ila? I looked at this boy, this innocent child, and made a choice.

Yes, I said quietly.

I saw someone, someone who told me to live, to tell people that there’s hope even in the darkest places.

Amir considered this.

Then you should do it.

Tell people, “My father says that when Allah saves you from death, it’s for a purpose.

Your father is wise.

Will you leave soon?” “I have to.

” I said, “But I’ll never forget your family’s kindness.

” 3 days later, Ibrahim drove me to the outskirts of Riad in his battered pickup truck.

He gave me money, enough for food and transport.

He asked no questions about where I would go or what I would do.

May Allah protect you, sister, he said as I climbed out of the truck.

“And you, brother,” I replied.

He drove away and I stood alone on the edge of the city where I’d been born, where I’d lived my entire life, and which was now utterly closed to me.

I had no money except what Ibrahim had given me.

No identification documents, no family, no home.

But I had a testimony and a calling.

Now I just had to figure out how to survive long enough to fulfill it.

Getting out of Saudi Arabia without documents is nearly impossible.

The kingdom controls its borders tightly, especially for women.

I needed help, and I knew exactly one person who might provide it.

Miss Rosa.

Finding her was risky.

My family might be watching her, suspecting she’d influenced me, but I had no other options.

I used Ibrahim’s money to buy a cheap burner phone and looked up the university staff directory at an internet cafe.

I called her personal number, which was listed for student emergencies.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Miss Rosa,” I said quietly.

It’s Ila from your economics class.

Silence, then a sharp intake of breath.

Ila, but you, they said you disappeared.

Your father came to the university asking if we’d seen you.

He said you’d run away.

So that was the story, not murder, disappearance.

It made sense.

They couldn’t report killing me without facing consequences themselves.

I need help, I said.

I can’t explain over the phone.

Can you meet me? Another pause.

I could almost hear her thinking, weighing the risks.

Finally, there’s a women’s mall in Ala district, food court on the third floor.

Tomorrow at 200 p.

m.

Come alone.

Thank you.

I breathed.

She hung up without responding.

The next day, I wrapped myself in a nicab that covered everything but my eyes and made my way to the mall.

The food court was crowded with women and families.

I spotted Miss Rosa at a corner table, ostensibly eating lunch, but clearly watching the entrance.

I sat across from her.

She looked at my eyes, the only part of me visible, and tears filled her own.

“It is you,” she whispered.

I thought when your father came asking questions, when you vanished, I thought the worst.

You were right to think so.

I said, “Miss Rosa, what happened to me? I can’t explain here, but I need to leave Saudi Arabia.

Do you know anyone who can help?” She glanced around nervously.

“What you’re asking is dangerous.

Human trafficking, illegal immigration.

The penalties are severe, more severe than being buried alive.

Her head snapped up.

What? My father found the Bible you gave me.

He and my uncle took me to the desert and buried me.

I died, Miss Rosa.

My heart stopped and I came back.

She stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

Ila, that’s not possible.

If you’d been buried, I know it’s not possible, but it happened.

I met Jesus.

He sent me back.

And now I need to get somewhere I can tell people what happened.

Because if I stay here, my family will finish what they started.

Miss Rosa closed her eyes, lips moving in what I recognized as silent prayer.

When she opened them, she’d made a decision.

I have a friend.

>> >> She runs a network helping domestic workers escape abusive situations.

It’s illegal, dangerous, and I can’t guarantee success.

But if anyone can get you out, she can.

Please, I said, I’ll take any risk.

2 days later, I met Rose’s friend, a Filipino woman named Carmen who worked as a nurse.

She looked me over with a clinical assessment.

“You understand the risks?” she asked.

If we’re caught, you’ll be imprisoned.

I’ll be deported at best, imprisoned at worst.

The people helping us could face execution for human trafficking.

I understand.

And you have no documents, no passport.

Getting you across a border will require forgery, bribery, smuggling.

It will cost money you don’t have.

So, you’ll be in debt to some very serious people.

I understand.

She studied me a moment longer.

Why? Why risk this? What’s so important that you’d risk imprisonment or death? I met her eyes.

Because I have something people need to hear.

And if I stay here, silent, then I came back from death for nothing.

Carmen nodded slowly.

Okay, we’ll do this.

But it will take time.

Weeks, maybe months.

You’ll need to stay hidden, stay patient, and do exactly what I tell you.

Those next six weeks were the longest of my life.

Carmen moved me between safe houses, mostly apartments of Filipino workers who were sympathetic to people escaping.

I hid in small rooms, went days without sunlight, lived in constant fear of discovery.

Carmon’s network was working on getting me false documents, creating a trail that would get me through airport security.

The plan was ambitious.

Forge a passport identifying me as a Filipino domestic worker returning home, get me on a flight to Manila, then figure out next steps from there.

The forgery cost money I didn’t have.

I signed papers promising to pay back the debt once I was safe and working, knowing I was essentially indentured to people I’d never met.

But on the 3rd of November 2018, 7 months after my death and resurrection, I walked through King Kid International Airport with shaking hands and a forged passport.

The security agent barely glanced at my documents before waving me through.

I boarded a Philippine Airlines flight to Manila, found my seat in the back of the plane, and didn’t breathe normally until we were airborne.

I’d escaped against impossible odds.

I’d actually escaped.

Now, I just had to figure out what to do with my second chance at life.

I’ve been living in the Philippines for 7 years now.

I work at a Christian ministry that helps Muslim converts and refugees.

I’ve told my story hundreds of times to groups large and small.

Some believe me, others think I’m exaggerating or mentally ill or making it up for attention.

I don’t blame the skeptics.

If someone told me they’d been buried alive and met Jesus and came back to life, I’d be skeptical, too.

It defies medicine, defies logic, defies everything we understand about how the world works.

But it happened.

I have scars.

Physical ones on my hands and knees from crawling through the desert.

Psychological ones that wake me up at 3:00 a.

m.

gasping for air, feeling sand filling my lungs even though I’m safe in bed.

Spiritual ones that make me question why I was chosen for this experience when millions of people die every day without resurrection.

I’ve struggled.

There have been months when I couldn’t speak about what happened because the trauma was too raw.

There have been periods of depression so dark I wished I’d stayed in heaven with Jesus instead of coming back to this broken world.

But I’ve also seen miracles.

I’ve watched Muslim women hear my story and weep because they’ve felt Jesus calling them but were too afraid to respond.

I’ve seen men who were about to give up on faith have hope restored.

I’ve connected with other Saudi believers in exile who thought they were alone in the world.

The Filipino family who helped me escape.

Their church supported me, helped me get real documents, gave me a job and a community.

Miss Rosa visits twice a year.

She tells me she prayed for 3 years before giving me that Bible.

Terrified of what it might cost.

Now she knows I haven’t seen my family since that night in the desert.

I dream about them sometimes.

In my dreams, I’m back at our compound in Riad and my father calls me his nighting gale and everything is forgiven.

Then I wake up and remember that some doors close forever.

My youngest brother, Yousef, found me on social media 2 years ago.

We had one brief conversation where he told me that our father told everyone I’d run away with a man.

Brought shame on the family.

That story was easier than admitting what really happened.

Yousef said he’s glad I’m alive, but that we can’t have contact because it would endanger him.

I understood.

I told him I forgave him for that night in the desert.

He cried and said he’s sorry.

Then he blocked me and I haven’t heard from him since.

Forgiveness is hard.

Jesus told me he loved my father, but I still struggle with rage sometimes.

I’m in therapy working through it.

I’m learning that surviving trauma doesn’t mean being instantly healed from it.

Resurrection is a process, not just a moment.

But here’s what I know with absolute certainty.

Jesus is real, not as a concept or a philosophy or a religious system, but as a person.

I met him.

I felt his love.

I heard his voice.

That experience is more real to me than any other memory I have.

Death is not the end.

There’s something beyond this life.

Something so beautiful and peaceful that it makes our earth existence feel like homesickness in comparison.

And love is worth dying for.

Jesus proved that on the cross.

But it’s also worth living for, even when living is harder than dying.

If you’re watching this and you’re a Muslim who’s felt Jesus calling you, I want you to know.

I see you.

I know you’re terrified of what it will cost.

I know you’re weighing belief against family, against community, against everything you’ve ever known.

I can’t tell you it won’t be hard.

My story proves it might cost you everything, but I can tell you he’s worth it.

If you’re watching this and you’re buried under the weight of trauma, abuse, control, shame, I want you to know there’s a hand reaching into your grave.

You may not see it yet.

You may not feel it, but it’s there.

The same Jesus who pulled me out of death can pull you out of whatever darkness you’re in.

I never asked to be a testimony.

I never wanted this story.

I wanted a normal life, a family, and safety.

But Jesus asked me to choose.

And I chose this.

And despite everything, I’d choose it again.

Because being alive, truly alive in Christ, is worth more than merely existing in comfort.

My name is Leila.

I died on the 17th of March, 2018 in the Saudi Arabian desert.

My own father buried me alive for reading a Bible.

And Jesus brought me back.

Not because I deserved it.

Not because I was special, but because love is relentless.

Because grace is scandalous.

And because sometimes God writes his testimony in the scars of broken people.

Thank you for listening.

Thank you for believing.

And if you’re still deciding whether to believe, that’s okay, too.

I pray that one day you’ll have your own encounter with the Jesus who resurrects because he’s still doing it every single day.

If this story moved you, I need you to do three things.

First, subscribe to this channel and turn on notifications.

We share testimonies like this every week.

Stories of radical faith that will challenge and inspire you.

Second, share this video.

Someone in your life needs to hear that resurrection is possible.

That Jesus meets people in their darkest moments.

Third, comment below.

Tell me what you’re facing.

What grave do you need to be pulled out of? This community will pray for you.

We’ll stand with you.

You’re not alone.

And if you’re a Muslim seeking truth, if you felt Jesus calling but you’re afraid, my email is in the description.

Reach out.

Your story matters.

Your questions matter.

You matter.

Thank you for watching.

May you encounter the Jesus who resurrects the dead because he’s still doing miracles

 

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