Former Muslim wife is taken by a Saudi prince — and JESUS rescues her in this powerful testimony!
My name is Tariq al-Nasa and I am 36 years old. 3 years ago, I was a devout Muslim living in Jeda, Saudi Arabia with everything a man could want according to our culture, a successful business, a respected position in our community, and a beautiful wife named Leila.
Today I stand before you as a follower of Jesus Christ. A man who has lost everything according to the standards of my former life, but who has gained something far more precious.
Eternal salvation and true freedom. The path that led me from the mosque to the church was paved with the most painful trial imaginable.
The day my wife was taken by a member of the Saudi royal family and how through a series of miraculous events, Jesus not only revealed himself to me but helped me rescue the woman I love.
This is our story. I was born into a prosperous family in Jedda with a father who worked as a successful civil engineer and a mother who managed our household with precision and care.
Our home was a spacious villa in Al Hamray district with polished marble floors that stayed cool even during the most punishing summer heat when temperatures would soar above 110°.
I remember the sound of the fountain in our central courtyard that provided a soothing background to our family gatherings.
The walls of our home were adorned with calligraphy of Quranic versus their flowing Arabic script, a constant reminder of Allah’s presence in our lives.
From my earliest memories, faith was the cornerstone of our existence. Five times daily we would stop whatever we were doing to perform salat the ritual prayers that punctuated our lives.
I can still hear my father’s voice reciting the Quran in the predom of our home before the first prayer of the day fajure the rhythm of those Arabic verses was the soundtrack of my childhood.
My father would stand on his prayer rug, his forehead touching the ground in perfect submission while I tried to mimic his movements and memorize the sacred words.
He was a strict but not unkind man who believed that devotion to Allah was the greatest gift he could give his children.
By the time I was seven, I knew how to perform wadu, the ritual washing before prayer.
I would carefully wash my hands, my mouth, my nose, my face, my arms, up to the elbows, my hair, my ears, and my feet in the precise order prescribed by tradition.
Even now I can recall the cool sensation of water on my skin and the sense of purification it brought.
My father would watch approvingly as I completed these ablutions on my own, saying, “Mashallah, good Allah has willed it as I grew more proficient.”
These rituals were not merely religious obligations, but the framework around which we built our understanding of the world and our place in it.
By the time I was 10, I had memorized substantial portions of the Quran attending Madrasa.
After regular school where we would rock back and forth for hours committing the sacred text to memory.
The Madrasa was a simple building attached to our local mosque with plain walls and ceiling fans that spun endlessly in a futile battle against the heat.
We sat cross-legged on the floor, our kurons opened before us as our teacher. Shik Abdullah paced between us, his wispy white beard and stern eyes striking both fear and respect into our young hearts.
Any mistake in recitation would earn a sharp tap on the knuckles with his wooden pointer.
I feared these corrections but also felt a sense of pride when I could recite a new sura without error the verses flowing from my lips like water.
I excelled at my studies both religious and secular. My father believed that worldly success and religious devotion were not mutually exclusive but rather that Allah blessed those who followed his path with prosperity in this life as well as the next.
I attended an international school where I learned English and western subjects in addition to the traditional Islamic education at the madrasa.
This dual education prepared me for the next phase of my life when at 18 I left Saudi Arabia for the first time to study in London, having earned a coveted scholarship.
The day of my departure remains vivid in my memory. My mother crying as she hugged me, whispering prayers for my protection.
My father standing tall and stoic, but I could see the pride in his eyes as he handed me a new Cororin bound in soft leather.
My younger brothers trying to maintain their composure as befitted men of our family, but their eyes shining with a mixture of admiration and envy.
The women of our extended family had prepared a feast of traditional dishes the night before.
Stuffed lamb with rice cabs of the fragrant rice dishes scented with cardamom and saffron, the sweet sticky dates that are the pride of our region.
It was their way of ensuring I carried the taste of home with me. Those first weeks in London were a shock to my system.
The constant rain, the gray skies, the biting cold that seemed to penetrate my bones so different from the dry heat of Jada.
But even more disorienting was the culture. Our professors had warned us about the West, about how we must guard our faith against the corrupting influences of the comfort and disbelievers.
Yet experiencing it firsthand was different from the abstract warnings. I remember standing frozen in the middle of a crowded street, watching women pass by in clothing that in my country would have been considered not just immodest but scandalous.
The easy mixing of men and women, the casual physical contact between them, the open consumption of alcohol.
All of these things violated the principles I had been raised with. I remained steadfast in my faith, praying in my dormatory room and finding the local mosque for Friday prayers.
I made few friends among the English students, keeping mostly to the company of other Saudi and Arab students who shared my values and practices.
We would gather in each other’s apartments to share meals, reminisce about home, and remind each other of our duty to maintain our faith in this foreign environment.
I recall one evening when a fellow Saudi student Hassan didn’t join us for Mcgrab prayer.
The next day we discovered he had gone to a pub with some British classmates.
The disgust and disappointment we felt was palpable. We held an intervention of sorts gathering in his room to remind him of his duties as a Muslim and the dishonor he brought to his family and country through such behavior.
Hassan was contrite and to my knowledge never strayed again. Looking back, I can see how our community policed itself, creating a bubble of Islamic practice within the larger secular environment.
Despite these challenges, I thrived academically. Business administration fascinated me, particularly international trade and finance.
I saw how the principles could be applied in ways that were compatible with Islamic finance, which prohibits the charging of interest.
My professors recognized my diligence and intellect, one of them suggesting I pursue further studies in the United States.
I declined politely, but firmly. Four years in the West was enough. My duty was to return to Saudi Arabia to use my education for the benefit of my family and country.
After completing my degree, I returned to Jerdar and with my father’s connections established an import business that grew rapidly.
We specialized in bringing luxury European goods to the Saudi market, catering to the growing appetite for Western brands among the kingdom’s affluent citizens.
I employed a staff of 15 men working from a modern office building in the business district.
Every aspect of the business was conducted according to Sharia law. We began each day with prayer and closed before each of the prayer times throughout the day.
I hired only men and maintained a separate reception area for the rare female visitor who might come on business.
I paid zakat, the obligatory charity that is one of the five pillars of Islam, donating a percentage of my profits to approved Islamic charities.
By my late 20s, I was considered a good match for marriage with a reputation for being both devout and successful.
I owned a spacious apartment in an upscale neighborhood, drove a German luxury car, and performed Omrach, the minor pilgrimage to Mecca twice yearly.
My mother began to hint with increasing frequency about her desire for grandchildren. At family gatherings, aunts would casually mention the names of suitable young women from good families.
I was not opposed to marriage, but had been focused on establishing my business and had specific criteria for a wife, someone educated enough to raise children properly, but uh traditional enough to respect our customs and religious values.
It was through family connections that I was introduced to Ila. Her father was a respected imam who had educated his daughter well unusual in our circles.
She had completed a degree in Arabic literature at a women’s university in Riyad and spoke English fluently.
She was 22 when we met in the carefully controlled environment of a family introduction.
Her face covered by nikab revealing only her dark expressive eyes. We spoke briefly in the presence of our families and I was struck by her intelligence and gentle voice.
She asked thoughtful questions about my business and my time abroad. Showing an understanding of the world that went beyond what I expected.
2 months later, we were married in an elaborate ceremony where men and women celebrated separately according to our customs.
Our wedding was a lavish affair befitting my family status. The men’s celebration featured traditional sword dancers and poetry recitations while I sat at the center accepting congratulations and gifts.
I could only imagine what was happening at the women’s celebration in a separate hall where Ila would be the center of attention.
Later that night, when we were finally alone, I saw my wife’s face fully for the first time.
She was beautiful with delicate features and a serene composure that immediately put me at ease.
That first night was awkward, as such nights often are, but Ila approached her duties with the same dignity and grace she showed in all things.
The early years of our marriage with everything I had been taught to expect. Ila managed our household, supervised the servants, and showed me proper respect and obedience.
She performed her prayers faithfully and dressed modestly in Abia and Nikab whenever we left our home.
Within the privacy of our walls, she was thoughtful and kind, though there were moments when I sensed a restlessness.
In her, a curiosity about the world beyond the strict boundaries we lived within. I remember one evening finding her on our balcony gazing at the Red Sea visible in the distance.
I asked what she was thinking and she hesitated before saying, “Sometimes I wonder what it’s like on the other side.”
I knew she meant not just the physical other side of the sea, but the other way of life.
I reminded her gently that Allah had placed us exactly where we were meant to be, that the freedoms of the West were illusions that led only to moral corruption.
She nodded and smiled, but something in her eyes remained distant. Looking back, I can see that Ila, like me, had questions that, our faith, did not seem able to answer satisfactoryy.
Sometimes I would find her reading books that were not strictly religious or watching documentaries about other countries.
I did not forbid this as long as she fulfilled her duties and maintained her modesty outside our home.
I even took pride in having a wife who could converse intelligently about world affairs and literature, a companion as well as a homemaker.
When we would host business associates for dinner, she would ensure every detail was perfect, from the food to the decor, though of course she would not join us at the table, as that would have been inappropriate.
In my business, I occasionally had dealings with members of the extended royal family, which is not unusual for successful merchants in Saudi Arabia.
The House of Sword numbers thousands of princes and princesses, the extended family of the ruling monarchy.
Most have no direct power in governance, but all enjoy tremendous privilege, wealth, and influence.
One prince in particular, Prince Abdul Raman, became a regular client, purchasing luxury goods through my company for his various palaces and residences.
He was not in the direct line of succession to the throne, but maintained significant business interests and was known for his collection of European art and antiques.
The prince would sometimes invite me to his marginalus, his receiving room, where businessmen and dignitaries would gather to discuss politics, business, and religion.
These gatherings took place in a vast room with plush carpets and low cushioned seating along the walls.
Servants would circulate with tiny cups of strong Arabic coffee and platters of dates. The conversations would flow between Arabic and English depending on who was present.
I considered these invitations a great honor and a sign that my business was being recognized at the highest levels of our society.
Prince Abdul Raman was in his 50s with a carefully trimmed beard dyed black in the tradition of the prophet and a commanding presence that came not just from his royal status but from his shrewd intelligence.
He would speak of his travels to Europe and America, sometimes with admiration for their technological advances, sometimes with disdain for their moral failings.
He was known to be strict in his religious observance, maintaining a separate palace for his four wives and adhering publicly to all Islamic requirements.
Yet there were rumors, as there always are, about the private lives of the powerful of behaviors that did not align with these pious appearances.
Such rumors were never spoken aloud, especially not by those who wished to maintain royal favor.
It was during Ramadan in 2022 that the prince invited me to break the fast at his palace.
A significant honor that I could not refuse. Ramadan is a holy month of fasting and spiritual reflection.
From dawn until sunset, we abstain from food and drink, even water, focusing our minds on prayer and our connection to Allah.
The fast is broken each evening with ifar, a meal that begins with dates and water following the example of the prophet Muhammad.
Leila prepared my finest th a long white robe worn by Saudi men and helped me dress, her eyes showing pride in my advancement.
As I left, she reminded me to mention her skill with traditional embroidery, as the prince was known to commission intricate works for his palaces.
I smiled at her entrepreneurial spirit. Something I had come to appreciate, though I would never have admitted this to my more traditional friends.
The palace was a sprawling modern complex surrounded by high walls and security checkpoints. My name was on a list and I was waved through with the difference shown to expected guests.
Inside I was struck by the contrast between the austere exterior and the opulent interior.
Marble columns soared to coffford ceilings inlaid with geometric patterns in gold leaf. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over furnishings that blended traditional Arabic aesthetics with European luxury.
Artwork hung on the walls, though in keeping with Islamic tradition, none depicted human figures focusing instead on calligraphy, landscapes, and abstract design.
The ifar meal at the palace was opulent, beyond anything I had experienced. Tables laden with dates, lamb, rice, and delicacies from around the world.
We broke the fast with the traditional dates and water performing mghreb, the sunset prayer.
The prince’s private mosque was a jewel of architecture with inlaid marble and handwoven carpets from Iran.
After prayers, we returned to the banquet hall where the feast continued. I was seated near enough to the prince to engage in occasional conversation, but not so close as to presume too much familiarity.
The prince was gracious, asking about my business and family. When I mentioned Ila’s skill with embroidery, he seemed genuinely interested, requesting that I have her prepare samples of her work for his consideration.
He mentioned that he was redecorating a wing of the palace and was looking for uniquely Saudi artisal works to showcase the kingdom’s cultural heritage.
I left feeling honored and excited to tell Leila about this potential opportunity. In our culture, such connections could elevate her family status considerably.
A week later, I received a call from one of the prince’s assistants, requesting that Leila bring her embroidery samples to the palace for the prince’s sister to review.
This was unusual as women rarely conducted business directly, but not unheard of when the work was specifically feminine in nature like embroidery.
After consulting with my father and brother, we decided this was acceptable as long as Ila was properly accompanied by a female relative.
My sister Fatima agreed to go with her. Ila was both nervous and excited, selecting her best work and dressing in her finest abaya.
I remember how her hands trembled slightly as she gathered her embroidery pieces wrapped carefully in silk cloth.
Looking back, I wonder if she had some premonition of what was to come, some instinct warning her of danger that she suppressed out of duty and respect for my decision.
The day Leila and Fatima went to the palace, I busied myself with work, trying not to show my anxiety.
In Saudi Arabia, men and women live largely separate lives. And while I had complete authority over Leila as her husband, I had rarely needed to intervene directly in her activities.
This venture into the world of royal patronage felt like a step into unknown territory for both of us.
When evening came and they had not returned, I began calling Fatima’s phone, which went unanswered.
As the hours passed, my concern grew into panic. I called business associates who might have connections at the palace, but received only vague reassurances.
I considered going to the palace gates directly, but knew that without an invitation, I would likely be turned away by security.
Finally, near midnight, Fatima returned alone, her face stre with tears. The story she told me shattered my world.
Upon arriving at the palace, they had been separated. Fatima was kept waiting in an anti-chamber while Ila was escorted deeper into the palace, ostensibly to meet with the prince’s sister.
Hours passed with Fatima growing increasingly concerned. When she asked the staff about her sister-in-law, she was given evasive answers.
Finally, a female attendant took pity on her and whispered that there was no meeting with any princess that Ila had caught the eye of Prince Abdul Ramen himself during my visit, and he had arranged this ruse to bring her into his household.
When Fatima demanded to see Leila or speak with the prince directly, she was firmly escorted to a car and told to return home that Ila had been chosen to join the prince’s household staff and would not be returning.
The attendant warned her that making a scene would only bring trouble to her and to me.
In a culture where royal whim often functions above the law, where the ruling family has near absolute power, Fatima had no choice but to comply.
I spent that night in a state between rage and disbelief. How could this happen?
I was a respected businessman, a devout Muslim, a man who followed all the rules of our society.
I had been invited into the prince’s own mulus, treated as a valued associate. And yet, in an instant, my wife had been taken, and I was powerless.
The betrayal was so complete, so breathtaking that I could barely comprehend it. I paced our apartment, touching Ila’s possessions, her prayer rug still laid out for her evening prayers, her books neatly arranged on the shelf, the lingering scent of her perfume in our bedroom.
The space that had been filled with her presence now echoed with her absence. The next morning, I began making calls, using every contact I had, trying to reach someone who could help me understand what had happened and how to get my wife back.
The responses were uniform, a mixture of sympathy and warning. The prince had taken an interest in Ila.
There was nothing to be done. To protest too loudly would only bring trouble to me and my family.
One business associates more forthright than the others explained that Prince Abdul Raman was known to add beautiful women to his household, sometimes as additional unofficial wives, sometimes in more ambiguous positions.
The legal limit in Islam is four wives, but the powerful often find ways to circumvent such restrictions.
My associate advised me to accept a financial settlement if one was offered and to consider myself divorced.
I could remarry, start a new family. This was presented as pragmatic advice. The reality of life in a kingdom where power trumped justice.
I went to an imam seeking religious guidance. He was an older man with a long gray beard and eyes clouded by cataracts.
I had respected him since childhood for his knowledge of Islamic law. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet of his simple office adjacent to the mosque, I poured out my story.
He listened without interrupting, stroking his beard thoughtfully. When I finished, he sighed deeply before speaking.
My son, he said, the holy Quran teaches us to accept the will of Allah with patience and submission.
If a prince has taken your wife, it must be part of Allah’s plan for you.
Perhaps it is a test of your faith. Remember the story of Prophet Aub Job who lost everything yet remained faithful.
I left his office feeling not comforted but further a drift. How could Allah’s plan include the destruction of a marriage that had been conducted according to all the principles of our faith?
For days, I moved through a fog of despair and anger. I went to the mosque and prayed with more intensity than ever before, begging Galah for justice for the return of my wife.
The Imam counseledled patience and acceptance, reminding me that the royal family was appointed by Allah to rule, and that there must be wisdom in what it occurred, even if I could [clears throat] not see it.
These words which once would have provided comfort now rang hollow. How could Allah will the destruction of a proper Islamic marriage?
I found myself questioning not just this particular injustice but the entire system that allowed it, the religious authorities that sanctioned it, the god who permitted it.
I couldn’t eat or sleep properly. My business began to suffer as I neglected appointments and made errors in transactions.
My family grew concerned, my father urging me to accept what had happened and move forward.
What troubles me most now looking back is how quickly everyone around me seemed to accept the unacceptable how the disappearance of Leila was treated as unfortunate but ultimately an understandable exercise of power.
It was as if an invisible line had been drawn between what we proclaimed as our values, justice, mercy, fidelity, and what we accepted as the reality of our world.
2 weeks after Ila was taken, I received a brief call from her. The number was blocked, and her voice sounded distant, constrained.
She was crying, saying only that she was now part of the prince’s household staff and that I should accept this as the will of Allah.
Before I could respond, the call ended. I knew from her voice that she was under duress that these were not her true feelings.
The call, rather than providing reassurance, only deepened my anguish. I could hear the fear in her voice.
Imagined the coercion behind her words. That night, I contemplated actions that would have been unthinkable before risking my life and the safety of my family to try to rescue her.
But how? The prince’s palace was like a fortress. I had no weapons, no influence, no power against one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
In my desperation, I turned to increasingly fervent prayer, spending hours at the mosque, prostrating myself, begging for divine intervention.
I began neglecting my business, spending days wandering the streets of Jedha, as if I might somehow encounter a solution.
I avoided family gatherings, unable to bear the pitying looks, the awkward silences, the well-intentioned but painful advice to move on with my life.
My younger brother, Samir, was the only one who seemed to truly understand my pain.
He would sit with me in silence in the evenings, sometimes bringing food that I barely touched.
One night, exhausted from prayer and lack of sleep, I returned home and found a business card slipped under my door.
It was plain white with only a phone number and a small symbol. I did not recognize a fish.
There was no name, no company, logo, nothing to indicate who had left it. I turned it over in my hands, wondering if it might be from the palace, perhaps an offer of compensation.
Curious and desperate for any connection that might help me. I called the number the next day.
The man who answered spoke Arabic with a slight accent. He asked me to meet him at a cafe in one of the expatriate compounds areas where the religious police rarely patrolled and where rules were somewhat relaxed.
Against my better judgment, I went. The cafe was western style with small tables and chairs rather than the traditional floor seating of Saudi establishments.
The walls were decorated with bland watercolor paintings and soft instrumental music played in the background.
A few western women sat at tables without male companions. Their heads uncovered a sight that would have been impossible in most of Jeda.
The man who approached my table introduced himself only as Ysef. He was Middle Eastern, perhaps Lebanese or Syrian in his 40s, with graying hair at his temples and lines around his eyes that suggested someone who smiled easily, but who had also seen suffering.
He ordered coffee for both of us, speaking casually as if we were old friends catching up.
Only when the sermit had left did he lean forward and speak in a lower voice.
I understand your wife has been taken by Prince Abdul Raman. I was immediately suspicious, but Yousef knew details about my wife’s disappearance that had not been made public.
He knew the exact date the ruse that had been used, even that Fatima had been the one to accompany her.
And then he said something that changed everything. I can help you get your wife back, but you must be willing to consider that the God you have been praying to is not the only way to the truth.
In any other circumstance, I would have left immediately reported this man for procilitizing, which was strictly forbidden in Saudi Arabia.
But desperation kept me seated across from him as he began to tell me his own story.
He had once been a Muslim from Syria who had converted to Christianity after experiencing what he described as a divine encounter with Jesus during the civil war.
He now worked with an underground network that helped people in crisis situations, particularly women who were being abused or exploited.
He claimed his organization had connections even within the palaces of the royal family. Christian workers who had access as drivers, maintenance workers, or domestic staff.
As he spoke, I found myself torn between hope at the possibility of rescuing Leila, and religious horror at the source of that hope.
All my life, I had been taught that Christians were misguided at best, blasphemers at worst for their belief that Jesus was the son of God.
The concept of the trinity was presented to us as the height of illogical thinking, a clear contradiction of the fundamental oneness of Allah.
That was the cornerstone of Islamic theology. And yet here was a man offering concrete help when all my prayers to Allah had gone unanswered.
When all the religious authorities of my faith had counseledled only acceptance of injustice, I listened with a mixture of hope and religious horror.
To even consider help from Christians felt like a betrayal of everything I believed. But when Yousef said he believed they could create an opportunity to get Leila out of the palace, I could not simply walk away.
We agreed to meet again, though I made no commitments to his faith or his God.
I was simply a desperate man grasping at the only hope offered to me. Over the next several days, I met with Yousef and two other members of his group.
One was a Filipino woman named Maria who worked as domestic staff in several royal households including occasionally that of Prince Abdul Raman.
The other was a Pakistani man named Jiangia who worked as a driver for a company that provided transportation services to the palace.
They shared their plans for creating a diversion during an upcoming event at the palace when security might be stretched thin.
Maria would attempt to make contact with Ila and guide her to a service exit where Jianggeia would be waiting with a maintenance vehicle.
I would be in a separate car nearby, ready to take Ila once she was clear of the palace grounds.
The plan was fraught with risk. If caught, I would certainly face imprisonment, perhaps even execution, for attempting to interfere with the prince’s household.
Ila might face even worse consequences. Maria and Jiangia, as foreign workers, would likely be immediately deported after whatever punishment was deemed appropriate.
And yet, they were willing to take this risk for people they had never met.
When I asked Maria why she would endanger herself for strangers, she smiled and said simply, “We are not strangers.
We are brothers and sisters in Christ.” This concept of a spiritual family that transcended national and ethnic boundaries was foreign to me, but I could not deny the power it seemed to hold for these people.
During these meetings, I began to learn more about Christianity. Not the distorted version I had been taught, but as it was actually practiced by these believers.
They spoke of Jesus not just as a prophet, but as God incarnate, who had died for the sins of humanity and been resurrected.
They talked about grace, the idea that salvation came not through religious works, but as a free gift that needed only to be accepted.
These concepts contradicted everything I had been taught. Yet there was something compelling about them, something that spoke to the emptiness I had begun to feel in my own religious practice.
Ysef gave me a small copy of the New Testament in Arabic, telling me I should read it for myself rather than relying on what I had been told about it.
I took it reluctantly, hiding it in my apartment. I told myself I was only humoring these people because I needed their help to rescue Ila.
Yet late at night, one found myself opening it curious despite myself. I started with the Gospel of Matthew, reading the familiar story of Jesus’ birth, but with details I had never heard before.
The Islamic version of Jesus Eser, as we called him, acknowledged his virgin birth, but nothing of the divine incarnation described in these pages.
I read with a mixture of fascination and discomfort, the stories contradicting so much of what I had been taught with a simplicity and power that was difficult to dismiss.
The night before our planned rescue attempt, I could not sleep. My mind raced between prayers to Allah and terrible fears about what might happen.
I read and reread the plan, looking for weaknesses, points of failure. I packed a small bag with essentials money and the passports Ila and I had used for our honeymoon trip to Malaysia.
The only time she had been out of Saudi Arabia. Ysef had connections who could help us leave the country if the rescue was successful though.
Where we would go and what future we might have remained terrifyingly unclear. In the pre-dawn hours, I finally fell into an exhausted sleep and experienced a dream so vivid it felt more real than waking life.
In the dream, I was wandering lost in a vast desert, the sun beating down mercilessly.
I was searching for Ila, calling her name, but hearing only the wind in response.
My throat was parched, my lips cracked from thirst, and the sun burned my skin through my thin clothing.
The horizon shimmerred with heat haze, disorienting me further. I was about to collapse from exhaustion when suddenly the quality of light changed.
A soft radiance different from the harsh desert sun began to illuminate the sands around me.
A man appeared before me dressed in white radiant light emanating from him. I knew immediately without being told that this was Issa, Jesus, as we called him in Islam.
His face was kind but somehow impossible to describe later, as if the human features were secondary to the love and compassion that shone through them.
He spoke my name with such love, such familiarity that I fell to my knees.
He reached out his hand and said, “Fear not, for I am with you. I will help you find her.
Trust in me, not in your own strength. The peace that flooded through me at these words was unlike anything I had ever experienced.
Not the temporary calm of worldly reassurance, but something that seemed to touch the deepest part of my being.
I awoke with tears streaming down my face and a sense of peace I could not explain.
The dream troubled me deeply. As a Muslim, I had been taught to respect Isa as a prophet, but nothing more.
Yet the presence I had felt in the dream was far greater than that of a mere prophet.
I tried to dismiss it as nothing more than stress and desperation manifesting in my dreams.
But I could not shake the sense that I had been visited by something or someone real.
I found myself returning to the words from the dream. Trust in me, not in your own strength.
All my life, I had been taught that Islam meant submission to Allah, that our strength came through obedience to his laws.
This idea of a personal God who offered his own strength in place of our weakness was foreign yet strangely compelling.
That evening, everything was set in motion. I waited in a car near the service entrance of the palace, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it would give me away.
Yousef was positioned nearby as a lookout. Minutes turned to hours with no sign of Ila or the maintenance worker who was supposed to help her escape.
The palace was lit up for an evening event. I could see cars arriving at the main entrance, distinguished guests in formal attire.
Security would be focused there, not on the service areas at the rear. Yet still no one came.
My phone remained silent. No updates from our contacts inside. Just as I was beginning to believe we had failed, Yousef rushed to the car.
There had been a complication. The maintenance worker had been discovered and detained. The plan had failed.
I drove home in a state of despair deeper than anything I had yet experienced.
I had risked everything and accomplished nothing. Leila remained captive, and now security would surely be increased, making any future attempt even more dangerous.
Ysef tried to reassure me that they would find another way, but his words seemed empty in the face of such a decisive failure.
In my bedroom, I fell to my knees, but found I could not perform the ritual prayers that had structured my entire life.
Instead, I simply cried out in raw anguish, “God, if you are real, if you care about justice, please help us.
I don’t know who you are anymore or what is true, but I need help.”
That night, the dream came again. The same man in white, the same outstretched hand, but this time he spoke different words.
Tomorrow she will call. Tell her to look for the woman with the cross. I awoke with those words ringing in my ears.
Despite the failure of our rescue attempt, I felt a strange hope building within me.
I went about my day in a kind of suspended animation, waiting for the phone to ring, wondering if I had truly lost my mind to place hope in a dream.
Sure enough, the next afternoon, my phone rang from a blocked number. It was Leila speaking quickly in a whisper.
She had only moments, but wanted me to know she was alive and still hoping to return to me.
Before she hung up, I blurted out, “Look for the woman with the cross.” There was a pause and then she said, “I know who that is.”
The call ended, leaving me stunned. The dream, the message, the fact that Ila seemingly understood what it meant, all of it was beyond my comprehension.
I immediately called Yousef and told him what had happened. He was silent for a long moment before saying, “This is how he works.
Jesus finds us in our darkness. I found myself unable to argue, wanting only to understand what would happen next.
3 days later, I received another call, this time from Yousef. His voice was urgent.
Be ready tonight. Same place. No explanation, just those four words. I prepared as before, driving to the same service entrance and waiting with the engine running.
After an hour of crippling anxiety, I saw two figures hurrying toward the car. A woman in the black abaya and nicob of a Saudi woman.
And beside her, a Filipino woman I had never seen before. As they reached the car, the Filipino woman quickly embraced Ila, whispering something in her ear before helping her into the vehicle.
As we drove away, Ila pulled back her kneecup. Her face stre with tears, but her eyes a light with something I had never seen before, a fierce joy.
As we drove through the night, heading for a safe house Yousef had prepared, Leila told me what had happened.
After the failed escape attempt, she had been confined to her quarters in the palace, allowed out only to perform specific duties.
The prince had not forced himself on her, but had made it clear that eventually she would become one of his companions.
She was being prepared for this role, taught how to behave in royal company, given new clothes and jewelry.
A Filipino domestic worker named Maria had been assigned to watch her, the same Maria who had been part of our failed rescue attempt.
Ila had noticed that Maria sometimes touched a small necklace she wore beneath her uniform, a cross she kept hidden from most people in the strictly Islamic household.
When Ila mentioned the woman with the cross, Maria had been shocked but quickly revealed herself as a secret Christian.
She had been the one to create a diversion, allowing Ila to escape using access codes and knowledge of the palace security routines that she had gathered over a years of employment there.
The escape had been hastily planned based on an unexpected opportunity when most of the security detail was occupied with a visiting dignitary.
Maria had risked everything to help Ila, knowing that if her role was discovered, she would face severe punishment.
Yet, she had done it with a calm assurance that God would protect him. We reached the safe house where Ysef and several others waited to help us plan our next steps.
It was a small apartment in a nondescript building in a neighborhood where many expatriate workers lived.
The furnishings were sparse, but clean a few chairs, a table, a mattress on the floor in the bedroom.
Yousef explained that we could stay only one night. By morning, the palace would discover Leila’s disappearance if they hadn’t already, and the search would begin.
It was clear we could not stay in Saudi Arabia. The prince would use every resource at his disposal to find Leila, both out of desire for her and out of pride.
No one defied royal will without consequences. Yousef explained that his organization had prepared documents and transportation to get us out of the country to safety in Europe.
As Ila and I sat holding each other still in disbelief at our reunion, she looked into my eyes and said something that shook me to my core.
Tariq Jesus helped me escape. While I was captive, I had dreams of him. He told me to trust the woman with the cross that she would help me find my way back to you.
I stared at her in amazement as she described dreams almost identical to my own.
The same figure in white, the same sense of peace, the same specific guidance. When I told her of my own dreams, we both fell silent, overcome by the implications of what we had experienced.
The synchronicity of our experiences was undeniable. We had both been visited by the same figure given guidance that proved true, provided help that seemed impossible.
As dawn approached, Yousef gathered us and the small group of Christians who had risked their lives to help us.
They asked if they could pray for our safe journey. I nodded numb with exhaustion and emotion.
They joined hands, including us, in their circle, and began to pray to Esther, to Jesus, calling him Lord and Savior, using terms that would have outraged me just weeks before.
Yet, I could not deny what had happened, the dreams, the guidance, the miraculous timing of Leila’s escape.
One of the men, a Korean, who had introduced himself as Pastor Kim, prayed with particular fervor, asking for angels to blind the eyes of those who would seek to harm us.
At the time, it seemed a poetic request. Later, I would wonder if it had been literally fulfilled.
Our journey out of Saudi Arabia was fraught with danger. We traveled by car to a coastal city, then by boat to a neighboring country where we could board flights to Europe without raising immediate alarms.
During those tense days of travel, Ila and I spoke of our experiences. She told me of the suffering she had endured in the palace, the humiliation and fear.
She also told me of how during her darkest moments, she had begun to pray not the ritual prayers we had performed all our lives, but desperate personal pleas for help, and how Jesus had appeared to her in dreams, just as he had to me.
She had found a small New Testament in English hidden in the quarters of Maria the Philipper worker and had begun to read it secretly, finding in its pages a description of a god who saw her suffering and cared deeply about her as an individual, not just as a dutiful adherent to religious laws.
We eventually reached Germany where Ysef’s organization had connections with a church that helped refugees.
We were given shelter documentation as asylum seekers and connected with a community of former Muslims who had converted to Christianity.
This community became a lifeline in the strange new world we found ourselves in. Everything was different from the food to the weather to the casual interaction between men and women.
I remember my shock the first time I saw Leila speaking directly to a male store clerk without me as an intermediary.
I had to remind myself that we were no longer bound by the cultural rules of Saudi Arabia.
That here women moved through the world with an independence I had never intended possible.
I approached their stories with caution, still struggling with the religious implications of what we had experienced.
How could we, as devout Muslims raised to believe in the absolute truth of Islam, the sinfulness of sherk, attributing partners to Allah, suddenly embrace Christianity?
Yet the evidence of divine intervention in our lives could not be dismissed. I found myself drawn to the Bible not as a scholarly exercise but with the desperation of a man searching for answers.
The Jesus the first encountered in its pages was not the pale reflection I had been taught about in Islamic education but a figure of tremendous power and compassion who claimed to be not just a prophet but God himself.
This claim which I had been taught was the height of blasphemy, the first now considered with new eyes.
For months I studied reading the angel, the New Testament for the first time not as a corrupted text as I had been taught, but with an open heart.
I compared the Jesus of the Gospels with the man who had appeared in our dreams, finding an undeniable resonance.
I wrestled with the concept of the Trinity, finding it difficult to comprehend, yet increasingly willing to accept that the nature of God might be more complex than I had been taught.
I read accounts of other Muslims who had converted to Christianity, many after experiencing dreams similar to our own.
Discovering that such supernatural encounters was surprisingly common. The pastor of the small Arabicspeaking congregation that welcomed us was himself a former Muslim from Egypt.
Pastor Bros had been an imam before his conversion and understood intimately the theological struggles I faced.
He did not pressure me but answered my questions with patience pointing me to passages in both the Quran and the Bible that spoke to my concerns.
He explained how the Islamic view of Jesus, though respectful, missed the central truth of who Jesus claimed to be.
Most helpfully, he showed me how the God of the Bible was not simply a distant Lordgiver, but a father who sought relationship with his children.
Ila embraced the faith more quickly, finding in Jesus the compassion and love she had always longed for.
I would often find her reading her Bible with tears streaming down her face as passages spoke directly to her heart.
She formed close friendships with other women in the church, particularly those who had escaped similar situations of oppression.
Together they studied, prayed, and supported each other through the challenges of building new lives in a foreign culture.
I watched as Ila bloomed in this environment. Her natural intelligence and compassion, finding expression in ways that would have been impossible in our previous life.
I struggled longer, wrestling with theological questions and the fear of betraying my family’s faith.
The concept of Jesus as divine, the idea of salvation by grace rather than works, the personal nature of God.
All of these required a complete restructuring of my worldview. I would spend hours debating with Pastor Bros.
My questions often circling back to the same fundamental issues. If Islam was false, why had Allah allowed so many millions to be deceived?
How could I reconcile the deep spiritual experiences I had had as a Muslim with the new understanding I was developing?
Was I betraying my culture and heritage by embracing a faith that was seen by many as western despite its Middle Eastern origins?
Through all of these questions, one fact remained undeniable. Something or someone had intervened in our lives in a way that could not be explained by coincidence or human effort, the dreams, the precise guidance, the impossible escape, all pointed to a divine hand at work.
And this divine intervention had come not in response to my faithful Islamic prayers but in my moment of greatest doubt when I had cried out to a God I no longer felt I knew or understood.
This experience of grace of unearned divine favor aligned with the Christian gospel in a way I could no longer ignore.
The day of our baptism came almost a year after our escape. The small church had a baptismal pool at the front of the sanctuary.
I remember standing at its edge, trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Ila beside me, her hand in mine.
Pastor Bros asked us each to share our testimony before the congregation. Ila spoke with quiet confidence of how Jesus had found her in the palace.
How he had shown her that she was valuable not because of her modesty or obedience but because she was created and loved by God.
When my turn came, I spoke of my journey from devout Muslim to doubter to reluctant then wholehearted believer in Christ.
I spoke of the dreams, the rescue, and most of all the peace I had found in him.
Surrendering to a God who had pursued me even when I had not been looking for him.
As I stood in the waters, symbolically dying to my old self and being reborn, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.
The shame of having failed to protect my wife according to the standards of my culture.
The guilt of abandoning the faith of my fathers. The fear of divine punishment. All of it washed away in those waters.
In its place came a peace I had never known. The peace of being fully known and fully loved by the God who had reached across the boundaries of religion and culture to find us.
The cost of our new faith has been enormous. We have lost everything from our former lives, our home, our business, our standing in the community, our connection to family.
My parents disowned me when they learned of our conversion, believing I had betrayed everything they had taught me.
My father sent a formal letter declaring me no longer his son, a ceremonial death notice that severed our relationship completely.
Leila’s family believes she was kidnapped by Christians and praised daily for her return to Islam and Saudi Arabia.
They cannot conceive that she would choose this path willingly. The pain of these broken relationships is profound, but it does not compare to the joy we have found in Christ.
We have faced practical challenges as well. Building new lives in a foreign country, learning a new language, finding work without recognized credentials.
I was once a successful businessman. Now I work in a warehouse while studying German and taking courses to have my business degree recognized in Europe.
Leila works part-time in a daycare center and volunteers teaching Arabic to other refugees. Our standard of living is far below what we enjoyed in Saudi Arabia.
Yet we have found a richness of community and purpose that makes these material sacrifices seem insignificant.
We share our testimony now, not to condemn Islam or those who practice it faithfully, but to proclaim that Jesus Christ reaches into the darkest places, into palaces and prisons, into the lives of those who do not even know they need him.
He is not just a prophet as I once believed, but the living God who intervenes in human history, who hears the cries of the oppressed and moves heaven and earth to rescue those he loves.
If you’re watching this and feel trapped by circumstances beyond your control, know that the same Jesus who guided us through impossible circumstances sees you.
The same God who arranged our escape can make a way where there seems to be none.
Maybe you were raised in a different faith as I was. Or perhaps no faith at all.
I invite you to call out to Jesus with an honest heart and see if he does not answer.
The journey may not be easy. The costs may be high. But the freedom found in Christ is worth every sacrifice.
I need to pause my story for a moment and ask you something. Have you ever felt that knot in your stomach during prayer?
That silent question that terrifies you? What if all of this isn’t true? I remember how alone I felt in those moments, believing I was the only one with these forbidden thoughts.
If you’re feeling this way right now, I want you to know something. You are not alone.
There are thousands watching this who understand exactly what you’re experiencing. The fear, the confusion, the silence that feels like it’s suffocating you.
Would you be brave enough to share just a small part of your journey? You can simply comment, “I sometimes question, too.”
Or, “I understand this struggle.” Your words, even anonymous ones, might be exactly what someone else needs to feel less alone in their darkest moment.
I know this takes courage. I know some of you may need to use a different account or device.
Your safety matters more than anything, but if you can, your comment might be the first time someone else feels truly understood.
Now, let me continue with what happened next. Our life now is dedicated to helping others like us.
Those seeking freedom from oppression, those questioning the faith they were born into, those who have encountered Jesus in dreams and visions as so many former Muslims have.
Through our testimony and through the practical help we provide to refugees and asylum seekers, we hope to repay some small portion of the grace that was shown to us.
2 years into our new life, we received a message through secure channels from Maria, the Filipino worker who had helped Ila escape.
She had managed to leave Saudi Arabia finding work in Dubai. She told us that after Leila’s disappearance, the palace had been in uproar.
The prince was furious but powerless to pursue us openly, without admitting that he had taken another man’s wife against her will.
Something that would damage his reputation, even in a society accustomed to, overlooking the indiscretions of the powerful.
Mariel also shared that our escape had inspired others. Two more women had since left the palace, seeking refuge and freedom.
The underground network of believers continued to grow even in the most restricted environments. This news strengthened our conviction that our story needed to be shared, that our experience was not meant to remain private, but to serve as a beacon for others.
We have faced skepticism and sometimes hostility from both sides. From Muslims who see us as apostates deserving of death and from Westerners who view our conversion with suspicion wondering if it is merely a convenient narrative to secure asylum.
Yet we continue to share our testimony because we have experienced the truth that sets people free.
We do not claim to have all the answers theologically or politically. We know only what we have experienced that in our darkest hour when all human help had failed when the systems we trusted had betrayed us.
Jesus reached into our lives and offered salvation not just spiritual but physical and emotional as well.
If this testimony touched your heart in any way, please know you’re not alone in your questions or struggles.
Many of us have walked this difficult path before you. By subscribing to our channel, you’ll join a community of seekers and believers who understand the unique challenges you face.
Each week, we share new stories of hope and freedom. Testimonies of those who found light in their darkest moments.
We respect your journey and your privacy completely. Whether you’re just curious, questioning your faith, or already on your path to Christ, this space is for you.
Subscribe by clicking below, and you’ll receive these powerful stories directly as we publish them.
No judgment, no pressure, just authentic testimonies that might speak to the very questions you’ve been carrying silently in your heart.
Remember the same Jesus who found us in our isolation can find you too. You don’t have to walk this path alone.
Join us and let’s discover truth together. For those of you watching in high-risk regions, we understand that simply viewing this content may put you in danger.
Your subscription is private and we recommend using private browsing or VPN services for additional security.
Your safety is our highest concern. To close, I want to share the scripture that has become the foundation of our new life.
It comes from the Gospel of John 8:32. Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free.
This promise has proven true in our lives in ways we could never have imagined.
The truth of who Jesus is. The truth of God’s love for us. The truth that we are valuable not because of our religious performance but because we are children of God.
These truths have indeed set us free. Thank you for listening to our story. May the peace of Christ which surpasses all understanding guard your hearts and minds as you consider your own journey with him.
Until we meet, whether in this life or the next, remember that no palace is too secure, no situation too hopeless for the God who specializes in impossible rescues.
