My name is Bano.

I am 28 years old, born into Saudi royalty.

August 2nd, 2018 was the day I was sentenced to death for reading the Bible.

Jesus performed a miracle that night and saved my life.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you die for? I was born in the sprawling marble corridors of a Riyad palace, the third daughter of a prominent Saudi prince who held significant power in our government.

My world was one of unimaginable luxury, where servants anticipated my every need before I could even voice it.

Designer gowns from Paris hung in closets larger than most people’s homes.

Fleets of luxury cars with tinted windows transported me wherever I desired to go, though always with restrictions and always under watchful eyes.

I had private tutors for every subject imaginable.

Traveled internationally on private jets, and possessed jewels that queens would envy.

From the outside, anyone looking at my life would have thought I was living a fairy tale, but I want you to understand something crucial about golden cages.

They may be beautiful, but they are still cages.

I lived in a golden cage with servants, luxury cars, and endless wealth.

Yet, every material desire that was fulfilled only seemed to make the emptiness inside me grow larger.

The marble floors echoed with my footsteps, but they never echoed with genuine laughter or real joy.

We were princesses, but we were also prisoners of tradition, bound by invisible chains that were stronger than any metal.

My father held a high position in the government and was deeply involved in enforcing strict Islamic law throughout our nation.

He was a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure, whose word was law not just in our household, but in the halls of power.

My mother embodied the traditional role perfectly, dedicating her life to grooming her daughters for strategic marriages that would benefit our family’s political and financial interests.

Every morning began with the call to prayer before dawn, and I would kneel on my prayer rug, performing the same rituals I had been taught since I could barely walk.

I would kneel and recite Arabic words that felt empty in my mouth, going through motions that my body knew by heart, but my spirit had never truly embraced.

The five daily prayers were performed robotically, each one feeling like checking a box rather than communicating with the divine.

I had memorized large portions of the Quran during my childhood, studying with private Islamic tutors who emphasized strict adherence to every rule and regulation.

When our family made the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, I found myself feeling spiritually disconnected even in what was supposed to be the holiest experience of my life.

I was surrounded by millions of worshippers.

Yet, I felt completely alone.

I was going through the motions, but God felt distant and angry, like a harsh judge waiting to punish any misstep rather than a loving creator who cared about my heart.

My relationship with Allah was built entirely on fear.

I feared making mistakes, feared not praying correctly, feared not covering myself properly, feared bringing shame to my family’s reputation.

It was exhausting to live in constant fear of divine disappointment.

Questions began forming in my mind about Islamic teachings regarding women, about why we were treated as lesser beings, about why our testimonies counted for half of a man’s in court, about why our inheritance was always less.

These were dangerous questions that I dared not voice aloud, but they grew stronger each day.

The first cracks in my foundation of faith came through observing the Christian servants who worked in our palace.

We employed housekeepers, cooks, and maintenance workers from the Philippines and other countries.

And there was something fundamentally different about them that I could not ignore.

There was a light in their eyes that I had never seen before, a peace that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within their souls.

Despite their lower social status and modest living conditions, they carried themselves with a quiet dignity and joy that was completely foreign to me.

They were respectful and hardworking, but there was also a confidence in the way they spoke, as if they knew something wonderful that I did not.

They seemed to know their god personally, not just religiously.

And this fascinated me beyond words.

I would catch glimpses of them humming softly while they worked, and their melodies carried a sweetness that our Islamic chants never possessed.

Their prayers seemed conversational rather than ritualistic, as if they were actually talking to someone who was listening and who cared about their daily concerns.

I began watching them more carefully, studying their facial expressions during their private moments, trying to understand the source of their unexplained peace.

During the long nights when sleep eluded me, I would stare at the ornate ceiling of my bedroom and wonder if this was really all there was to existence.

I would lie there surrounded by silk pillows and golden furnishings, yet feeling spiritually empty despite all the religious activity that filled my days.

I saw fear everywhere I looked in our Islamic society, but no real love or genuine peace.

The religious police enforced strict interpretations of Islamic law through intimidation and punishment, creating an atmosphere of constant anxiety rather than spiritual growth.

I watched women hurry through the streets with downcast eyes, saw men enforce rules through harsh words and harsher consequences, and witnessed a religion that seemed more concerned with external compliance than internal transformation.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever felt spiritually empty despite being surrounded by religious activity? Have you ever gone through the motions of faith while your heart remained completely untouched? That was my daily reality.

I was drowning in spiritual emptiness while surrounded by an ocean of material abundance, desperately searching for something real in a world full of beautiful emptiness.

My growing curiosity about the Christian servants eventually led me to develop a closer relationship with Maria, our head housemmaid from the Philippines.

She had worked in our palace for over 8 years and had earned the trust of my entire family through her dedication and discretion.

Maria possessed something that I desperately wanted but could not name.

She had this peace about her that I couldn’t understand, a calmness that remained steady even during the most stressful situations.

When other servants would panic over broken dishes or scheduling conflicts, Maria would handle everything with grace and wisdom that seemed to come from somewhere beyond her own capabilities.

I began finding excuses to spend time in areas where Maria worked, asking subtle questions about her homeland, her family, and gradually about her beliefs.

She was incredibly careful in her responses, understanding the dangerous territory we were entering.

Maria never pushed or preached, but she planted seeds of truth through her gentle answers and her consistent example of love in action.

When I asked her why she seemed so peaceful despite being far from her family and working in difficult conditions, she would smile and say that she was never truly alone because Jesus was always with her.

The way she spoke his name was different from how we mentioned Jesus as merely a prophet in Islam.

When Maria said Jesus, her entire countenance would soften with genuine affection.

Our conversations gradually became deeper as Maria began to trust my sincere curiosity.

She explained how Jesus was not just a prophet to Christians but the actual son of God who came to earth to save humanity.

This concept was revolutionary to my Islamic understanding.

She told me about God as a loving father rather than an angry judge about grace instead of works about relationship instead of ritual.

I was learning about Jesus as more than just a historical figure mentioned in the Quran.

According to Maria, Jesus was alive, personal, and deeply interested in individual hearts rather than just external religious performance.

The growing fascination with this concept of God as a loving father consumed my thoughts during the long desert nights.

Everything Maria described about Christianity was the opposite of what I had experienced in Islam.

Where Islam taught me to fear Allah’s judgment, Christianity spoke of God’s love and forgiveness.

Where Islam required perfect performance to maybe earn divine approval, Christianity offered grace as a free gift through Jesus’s sacrifice.

Where Islam kept God distant and unapproachable.

Christianity invited personal relationship with the creator of the universe.

After months of careful consideration, Maria made a decision that could have cost us both everything.

One evening, she looked me directly in the eyes and said that if I truly wanted to understand Christianity, I needed to read the Bible for myself.

She explained that she could arrange for me to obtain a copy.

But we both understood the enormous risks involved.

If we were discovered, Maria would be immediately deported and possibly imprisoned, while I would face consequences that could include death.

The weight of this decision pressed down on both of us, but something in my heart was crying out for truth regardless of the cost.

Maria helped me order a Bible online to be delivered to a location outside the palace grounds.

We arranged for her to pick it up during her day off and smuggle it back into my quarters.

The terror and excitement of holding that forbidden book for the first time was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

My hands were shaking as I touched those forbidden pages, knowing that this small book contained the power to completely transform or destroy my life.

We created a hiding place in a secret compartment behind my jewelry box, a location that seemed secure, but was actually incredibly vulnerable.

The first time I opened the Bible alone in my room, I felt as though I was crossing a line from which there might be no return.

I began with Genesis, reading by candlelight in the early morning hours when the rest of the palace was asleep.

The God of the Bible created with love, not anger, speaking the universe into existence through words of power and beauty.

This was completely different from the harsh demanding Allah I had been taught to fear.

Creation in Genesis was described as good and humanity was made in God’s image, given dignity and purpose from the very beginning.

When I discovered the Psalms, I encountered prayers that felt real and from the heart rather than memorized recitations.

David wrote with raw honesty about his fears, doubts, anger, and joy.

Finally, I found prayers that acknowledged human emotion and struggle instead of demanding perfect submission.

David questioned God, argued with God, and expressed frustration.

Yet God still called him a man after his own heart.

This was revolutionary to someone who had been taught that questioning Allah was blasphemous.

Isaiah’s prophecies about the coming Messiah fascinated me beyond words.

I was reading about Jesus centuries before his birth, seeing how God had planned salvation through detailed prophecies that were fulfilled perfectly in the New Testament.

The suffering servant passages in Isaiah 53 described Jesus’s crucifixion with startling accuracy.

written hundreds of years before crucifixion was even invented as a method of execution.

When I reached the Gospel of John and read those opening words about the word becoming flesh, something shifted in my understanding of divinity.

The revolutionary concept of God becoming man to bridge the gap between heaven and earth was unlike anything in Islamic teaching.

Allah remained distant and unreachable.

But the God of Christianity had come close enough to experience human suffering and death.

Reading the sermon on the mount turned my worldview completely upside down.

Love your enemies.

This was completely opposite of everything I had been taught about dealing with opposition.

Jesus’s treatment of women throughout the gospels gave me hope that I had never experienced before.

He spoke to the woman at the well like she mattered, defended the woman caught in adultery, and included women among his closest followers.

This wasn’t about following rules to earn God’s tolerance.

This was about relationship with a god who actually enjoyed spending time with his children.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Have you ever encountered truth that was so beautiful and so dangerous that you knew it would cost you everything you thought you valued? That was my experience every night as I read about Jesus by flickering candle light.

Falling deeper in love with someone I had been taught was my enemy.

The morning of August 2nd, 2018 began like any other day in our palace.

I woke before dawn for morning prayers, performed my ablutions, and knelt on my prayer rug, as I had done thousands of times before.

Everything seemed perfectly ordinary that morning as I joined my mother and sister for breakfast in the sunlit dining room overlooking our gardens.

We discussed mundane topics like upcoming social events and my sister’s wedding preparations.

My father was away on government business in another province, which meant the palace atmosphere was more relaxed than usual.

I had no idea that this would be the last normal conversation I would ever have with my family.

After breakfast, my mother mentioned that the head of security had scheduled a routine room inspection for all family quarters.

These inspections happened periodically to check for security vulnerabilities, contraband items, or anything that might compromise our family’s safety or reputation.

I had experienced these inspections many times before, but this morning something felt different.

There was an intensity in the security chief’s demeanor that I had not noticed during previous inspections.

Looking back, I realized now that they were not conducting a random search.

They were looking for something specific, which meant someone had informed them about my secret activities.

I thought I had hidden the Bible perfectly in the secret compartment behind my jewelry box.

For months, this hiding place had protected both the book and my life.

I had been so careful about when and where I read it, always ensuring complete privacy and returning it to its hiding place immediately after each study session.

But as I watched the security team systematically searched my room with unusual thoroughess, a cold fear began spreading through my chest.

They were not just checking for general security issues.

They were conducting a targeted investigation.

When the head of security’s hand found the hidden mechanism behind my jewelry box and the secret compartment clicked open, time seemed to stop completely.

The moment he held up that Bible with a look of shock and horror on his face, my world exploded into a million pieces.

In that instant, my old life was completely over, and I knew there would be no going back to the comfortable existence I had known.

The Bible that had become my source of life and hope was now the evidence that would condemn me to death.

The immediate arrest was swift and efficient.

Palace guards restrained me while the head of security called my father’s private number.

I could hear him speaking in urgent hushed tones about a family emergency that required my father’s immediate return.

Within hours, my father was racing back to Riyad, and I was confined to my quarters under armed guard while the family decided how to handle this unprecedented crisis.

The waiting was agony because I knew that my father’s reaction would determine whether I lived or died.

When my father arrived that evening, his face was a mask of rage beyond anything I had ever witnessed.

His eyes looked at me like I was already dead, like I had become something foreign and dangerous that threatened everything he held sacred.

The family meeting that followed was a nightmare of shouting, tears, and ultimatums.

My mother’s hysteria was heartbreaking to witness.

She kept asking how I could betray Allah and our family honor.

How I could throw away everything they had provided for me.

My sister stared at me in shock and disbelief, unable to comprehend how her sister had become a stranger overnight.

How could you betray Allah and our family honor? My father demanded, his voice shaking with fury and hurt.

The disappointment in his eyes was almost harder to bear than his anger.

I had been his daughter, his princess, someone he had loved and protected my entire life.

Now I had become the family shame in a matter of hours, the source of dishonor that could destroy our reputation and standing in Saudi society.

Extended family members were summoned for an emergency meeting, and religious advisers were called to the palace to determine the appropriate response to my apostasy.

The ultimatum they presented was stark and simple.

public renunciation of Christianity and return to Islam or face execution for apostasy according to Islamic law.

They wanted me to appear on television and curse the name of Jesus Christ to publicly declare that I had been deceived and that Islam was the only true faith.

My mother fell to her knees, begging me to save my life by denying everything.

My sister pleaded with tears streaming down her face for me to just say the words they wanted to hear, even if I did not mean them in my heart.

But when the moment came for me to make my choice, standing in front of my entire family with religious leaders quoting Quranic passages about the punishment for apostates, something supernatural happened.

I looked at them all and the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

I cannot deny Jesus Christ, I said with a calmness that surprised even me.

Those seven words sealed my fate and changed everything forever.

My father’s final declaration of disownment was delivered with the cold formality of a legal document.

I was no longer his daughter, no longer a member of our family, no longer worthy of the name I had carried since birth.

The transfer to the state religious court happened within days.

Formal charges of apostasy, blasphemy, and family dishonor were read against me, like I was a dangerous criminal.

The judge read my crimes like I was a terrorist who had threatened national security.

Islamic scholars provided testimonies about the Quranic requirements for punishing apostates.

Quoting verses that demanded death for those who left Islam.

Despite multiple opportunities to recant and save my life, I found myself unable to deny the Jesus who had transformed my heart.

They offered me multiple chances to save my life by simply saying the words they wanted to hear.

Even my own court-appointed lawyer begged me to just lie and deny Jesus for the sake of survival.

But every time they asked me to curse his name, something inside me refused to cooperate.

When the formal death sentence was pronounced by beheading scheduled for dawn 3 days later, the word sentenced to death echoed in my ears like thunder.

As I walked to that prison cell knowing Jesus was with me, I realized that dying for Christ was better than living without him.

So I am asking you just as someone who faced death would ask what would you die for? What truth is so precious to you that you would rather lose your life than deny it? The death row section of the state prison was a place designed to break the human spirit before the body was destroyed.

My solitary confinement cell contained four concrete walls, one small window that barely let in sunlight, and Jesus.

That tiny space became my monastery, my place of deepest communion with God that I had ever experienced.

The physical conditions were deliberately harsh to encourage lastminute conversions back to Islam.

The concrete floor was cold and damp.

The thin mattress provided little comfort, and the inadequate food was designed to weaken both body and resolve.

Every single day, interrogators would visit my cell, offering me life if I would just deny Christ and return to Islam.

They brought Islamic scholars who quoted verses about God’s mercy for those who repent from their errors.

They brought psychologists who tried to convince me that I was suffering from mental illness caused by foreign influence.

They brought former Christians who claimed they had found peace by returning to Islam.

Each visitor had the same message.

Your life can be spared if you simply say the words we want to hear.

The other prisoners mocked me constantly, calling me the crazy princess who chose death over common sense.

Guards would deliberately make noise during my prayer times and would laugh when they saw me reading verses I had memorized from the Bible.

The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the psychological warfare designed to make me question my sanity.

They wanted me to believe that following Jesus was a form of madness that could be cured by returning to the religion of my birth.

But something remarkable was happening in that concrete cell.

My body was suffering, but my spirit was growing stronger every day that passed.

I spent hours in deep prayer and meditation, clinging to every scripture I had hidden in my heart during those months of secret Bible study.

Verses like, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” became lifelines that sustained me through the darkest hours.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

took on meaning that I had never understood before.

Jesus would visit me in my dreams and give me peace that surpassed all human understanding.

In those supernatural encounters, he would remind me that my suffering was temporary, but my reward in heaven would be eternal.

Sometimes I would wake up feeling like I had actually been held in his arms, comforted like a child who had been crying.

These divine visitations became so real and so frequent that I began looking forward to sleep as much as I treasured my waking prayer time.

I managed to obtain small pieces of paper and wrote my final testimony, pouring out my heart about how Jesus had saved my soul, even if he chose not to save my earthly life.

I wrote a letter to Maria thanking her for having the courage to introduce me to the Bible despite the risks.

I wanted her to know that her courage had led to my salvation and that I would spend eternity grateful for her obedience to God’s call on her life.

Writing these letters became a form of worship, a way of processing the miraculous journey that had brought me to this place of ultimate surrender.

As my final day approached, I reached a place of complete surrender to God’s will.

Jesus, whether I live or die, I belong to you became my constant prayer.

The fear of death had been replaced by an anticipation of meeting my savior face to face.

I understood that this world was not my home and that I was simply passing through to my real destination in heaven.

The peace that filled my heart was so complete that guards began to comment on how different I seemed from other condemned prisoners.

August 5th, 2018 arrived with the knowledge that my execution was scheduled for dawn.

When they offered me a final meal, I refused, choosing instead to fast and pray for my final hours on earth.

I wanted to meet Jesus with a clear heart and mind, focused entirely on him rather than on earthly comforts.

The decision to fast felt like my final act of worship, my way of saying that Christ was more important to me than physical sustenance.

My father made one final visit, offering me one last chance to recant and save my life.

The pain in his eyes was evident, but his pride and religious conviction prevented him from understanding my choice.

My mother’s desperate tears and my sister’s silent pleading created a heartbreaking scene that nearly broke my resolve.

They could not comprehend how I could choose death over life.

How I could value an invisible God over my visible family who loved me.

Even facing the sword, I felt more alive than ever before because I knew I was living in complete obedience to God’s will.

A prison chaplain visited me that evening, not to offer comfort, but to make one final attempt to convince me to deny Christ and save my life.

Even he, a religious leader, wanted me to save my earthly life and lose my soul rather than follow Jesus to martyrdom.

Everyone around me seemed to think that any compromise was better than death.

But they did not understand that denying Jesus would have been spiritual death far worse than physical execution.

As midnight approached on what I believed would be my final night on earth, I was lying on my prison cot in deep prayer, completely surrendered to whatever God had planned.

Jesus, I am ready to come home to you.

I whispered into the darkness, meaning every word with all my heart.

Then something supernatural began to happen that changed everything.

The air itself changed and I realized that I was not alone anymore.

A presence filled that cell that was more real than the concrete walls surrounding me.

The bright light that began to illuminate the darkness was unlike any earthly illumination I had ever seen.

It did not hurt my eyes, but instead filled me with warmth and overwhelming love.

I could feel Jesus’ presence wrapping around me like a blanket, and his love was so tangible that I began weeping with joy rather than fear.

A voice that came from both outside and inside my heart spoke words that I will never forget.

Get up, my daughter.

It is time to go.

Ask yourself this question.

Do you believe God still performs miracles today? Because what happened next defied every law of physics and human logic that I had ever known.

The first safe house was located in the basement of a Christian family who had risked everything to help me escape.

I went from a palace to a basement, but I had never been happier in my entire life.

The contrast was startling and beautiful in ways that I struggled to explain.

Where I had once slept on silk sheets in a room larger than most homes, I now rested on a simple cot surrounded by concrete walls.

Where I had once been served meals by uniform staff, I now ate simple bread and soup prepared by hands that served out of love rather than obligation.

Everything I thought defined me was gone, stripped away in a single miraculous night.

Yet, I felt more complete than I had ever felt in all my years of luxury.

The reality of my situation became clear very quickly.

I had no possessions except the prison clothes on my back, no identification documents, no money, and no legal status in any country.

The complete cut off from my former life and identity was absolute and irreversible.

My family had declared me dead to them.

And returning to Saudi Arabia would mean immediate execution.

I had become a person without a country, a princess without a kingdom, completely dependent on the kindness of strangers who shared my faith in Jesus Christ.

Within days, I learned about the massive manhunt that Saudi authorities had launched to find me.

My escape had created an international incident with diplomatic pressure being applied to neighboring countries to locate and return me.

Interpol notices had been issued and substantial rewards were being offered for information leading to my capture.

I had become a fugitive for following Jesus and my face was appearing on wanted posters throughout the Middle East.

The government was treating my conversion and escape as a national security threat rather than a personal religious choice.

The loss of everything familiar was both devastating and liberating simultaneously.

I would never again hear my mother’s voice, never receive a letter from my sister, never know if my father might someday forgive me.

My family was grieving me as if I had died.

Because in their understanding, the daughter they had known was dead.

The palace where I had grown up, the gardens where I had played as a child, the traditions that had shaped my early years, all of these were now part of a past life that I could never revisit.

I had traded a crown for a cross.

Choosing eternal riches over earthly treasure.

The cultural shock and adjustment difficulties were overwhelming during those first months.

Simple things like grocery shopping became adventures because I had never handled money or made purchasing decisions without assistance.

Language barriers made basic communication challenging, and I found myself struggling with tasks that other people took for granted.

I had been raised in an environment where every need was anticipated and met by others.

So, learning to navigate ordinary daily life required developing completely new skills.

Some nights I would cry for the family I had lost, mourning the relationships that had been severed by my choice to follow Christ.

The grief was real and deep.

Even though I had no regrets about my decision, missing familiar foods, customs, and comforts was a daily reminder of how completely my life had changed.

The isolation from everything I had known since childhood created moments of loneliness that were difficult to bear, even surrounded by caring Christian brothers and sisters.

But something beautiful was happening alongside the grief and adjustment challenges.

I was learning to live as a Christian, discovering what it meant to follow Jesus in practical daily ways.

My first Christian church service was an experience that changed my understanding of worship forever.

I wept through the entire service, overwhelmed by the freedom to worship openly without fear, to hear the name of Jesus proclaimed boldly and to be surrounded by people who shared my love for him.

When the congregation sang Amazing Grace, I finally understood what was blind, but now I see meant in the deepest part of my soul.

Hearing hundreds of voices singing together in praise to Jesus created a joy in my heart that no earthly pleasure had ever produced.

The worship was so different from Islamic prayers, filled with celebration rather than obligation, expressing love rather than fear, offering thanksgiving rather than performing duty.

I had never experienced anything like the freedom to lift my hands, close my eyes, and pour out my heart to God in the presence of others who understood exactly what I was feeling.

Bible study with patient Christian mentors opened up depths of scripture that I had never imagined during my secret reading sessions.

Learning to pray conversationally to Jesus transformed my entire understanding of communication with God.

Prayer became talking to my best friend, not reciting formulas or following prescribed formats.

I could share my fears, my joys, my questions, and my gratitude in simple, honest language that came straight from my heart.

The discovery that God actually wanted to hear my thoughts and feelings was revolutionary for someone raised in a religion of ritualistic distance.

Understanding grace versus works-based salvation changed everything about how I related to God.

I did not have to earn God’s love through perfect performance because Jesus had already won it for me on the cross.

This concept was so foreign to my Islamic background that it took months for my heart to fully accept what my mind had already embraced.

The freedom from constantly trying to prove my worth to an angry deity was like breathing fresh air after years of suffocation.

My baptism became the most significant moment of my new life in Christ.

Despite the risks of public declaration, I wanted the world to know that I belong to Jesus.

The symbolism of baptism had never been explained to me before.

But as I stepped into the water, I understood that I was participating in a beautiful picture of death and resurrection.

Going under the water, I died to Princess Bano.

To the life of privilege and emptiness that had defined my existence for 28 years.

Rising from that water, I was born again as a new creation in Christ with a new identity that could never be taken away by governments, families, or circumstances.

The Christian community celebration and welcome made me realize that I had found my real family, the body of Christ that transcended nationality, culture, and social status.

People loved me for who I was in Christ, not for what I owned or what family I came from.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, what do you need to die to in order to truly live for Christ? The birth of my ministry came directly from the pain I had experienced and the miracle I had witnessed.

God began using my story to touch other searching hearts in ways that I never could have imagined during those dark days in prison.

My first opportunity to share my testimony publicly came 6 months after my escape when a small church invited me to speak at their Wednesday evening service.

I was terrified because speaking publicly about my conversion meant risking exposure and possible deportation back to Saudi Arabia where execution still awaited me.

When I stood before that congregation of maybe 50 people and began sharing how Jesus had saved me from death row, something supernatural happened in that sanctuary.

People wept as I shared how Jesus saved me and I realized that my suffering had been preparation for ministry rather than simply persecution to endure.

The response was overwhelming with people approaching me afterward to share their own struggles with faith, their fears about following Christ boldly and their amazement at God’s miraculous power displayed through my escape.

That first speaking engagement led to others and I began to understand that my pain had become my platform for reaching souls that others could not touch.

My story resonated especially with people from Muslim backgrounds who were secretly questioning their faith but feared the consequences of conversion.

I could relate to their struggles and fears in ways that others could not because I had walked that exact path from Islam to Christianity.

We formed an underground network of former Muslims who were learning to follow Jesus together, supporting each other through the unique challenges that come with leaving Islam for Christ.

Ministry to other Muslim background believers became my passion and my calling.

These precious souls faced rejection from family, threats of violence, complete social isolation, and constant fear of discovery.

I understood their pain intimately because I had experienced every aspect of their struggle.

Teaching them that they could follow Jesus without shame became my life’s work.

Many of them had been living in secret, hiding their faith even from close friends.

Terrified of the consequences if their conversion became known.

Living boldly for Christ despite ongoing risks became my testimony and my challenge to other believers.

I went from hiding my Bible to preaching from it.

From being ashamed of my faith to proclaiming it publicly.

Every time I shared my story at churches, conferences, or Christian gatherings, I risked exposure and capture.

But I discovered that I could not stay silent about what God had done.

The gospel was worth every risk I was taking because souls were at stake and eternity hung in the balance.

Public speaking engagements led to media interviews which increased both my platform and my danger.

Christian television networks, radio programs, and online ministries wanted to hear about the Saudi princess whom Jesus had miraculously rescued from execution.

Each interview was a calculated risk because it meant greater visibility for those who were hunting me.

But it also meant reaching more people who needed to hear that Jesus still performs miracles today.

Prayer ministry for the persecuted church worldwide became another crucial aspect of my calling.

I pray for believers facing what I once faced, understanding their terror, their loneliness, and their need for supernatural courage.

There are Christians in prison cells around the world right now who are facing execution for their faith.

And I intercede for them with passion born from personal experience.

When I pray for persecuted believers, I am praying for my former self, knowing exactly what divine intervention can accomplish in impossible situations.

My advocacy work for religious freedom has taken me before government officials, human rights organizations, and international religious liberty groups.

I use my voice for those who have been silenced, speaking for believers who cannot speak for themselves without facing imprisonment or death.

The irony is not lost on me that a former Muslim princess now advocates for Christian rights in countries where Christianity is banned or severely restricted.

My current life is dedicated entirely to serving Christ.

And every day I wake up grateful to serve the King of Kings rather than earthly royalty.

The work is not glamorous and the pay is minimal, but the joy of seeing souls saved and believers encouraged makes every sacrifice worthwhile.

I have less material wealth than most people, but I have more joy than I possessed when I had access to unlimited resources in my father’s palace.

The continued separation from my biological family remains one of the ongoing costs of following Christ.

I have not spoken to my family in over 6 years, and I do not know if I will ever see them again this side of heaven.

Sometimes I wonder if my mother still prays for my return or if my sister remembers our childhood together with fondness or only with pain.

But my brothers and sisters now are those who love Jesus.

And this spiritual family has loved me more authentically than my biological family ever did.

Simple living versus former luxury has taught me valuable lessons about what truly matters in life.

I have fewer possessions but more purpose, less comfort but more joy, less security but more faith.

This world is not my home and I am just passing through to my real destination in heaven.

The eternal perspective that imprisonment and near death gave me has never left.

Coloring every decision I make with the knowledge that only what is done for Christ will last forever.

The ongoing security precautions and risks are constant reminders that freedom is not free and that following Christ requires constant vigilance.

I cannot travel freely, cannot use my real name in many situations, and must always be aware of my surroundings.

But these restrictions feel like small prices to pay for the privilege of serving the one who saved my life and transformed my heart.

If my story can save one soul from hell or encourage one believer to follow Christ more boldly, then everything I have suffered and sacrificed was worth it.

I pray daily that my family will meet Jesus too.

That they will somehow come to understand that my choice was not rebellion against them but obedience to God.

When I stand before Jesus someday, I want to bring as many people with me as possible.

So I am asking you just as someone who has risked everything would ask.

What is Jesus calling you to sacrifice for him? Are you willing to lose everything to gain Christ? When was the last time your faith cost you something significant? Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself if you are living with the urgency that comes from knowing this life is temporary and eternity is forever.

Jesus does not want part of your life.

He wants all of it.

He wants your fears, your dreams, your relationships, your career, your reputation, and your future.

If Jesus can save a Saudi princess from execution, he can save you from whatever you are facing today.

Do not wait until tomorrow because Jesus is calling you today to a life of complete surrender and total trust.

I may have lost an earthly crown, but I gained a heavenly one.

Every breath I take is a gift from Jesus Christ.

This is my testimony and this is my king.

His name is Jesus Christ and he is worthy of everything.