Saudi Prince SET ON FIRE For Reading Bible, Then JESUS SAVES HIM
My name is Rizswan.
I’m 34 years old.
And what I’m about to tell you happened on August 23rd, 2019.
I was born a Saudi prince, third in line to inherit millions, raised an absolute devotion to Islam.
That night, my own family set me on fire for reading a Bible.
I should have died, but Jesus Christ had other plans for my life.
Ask yourself right now, what would you risk everything for?
I lived in a palace with 200 rooms, had my own private mosque, and servants who anticipated my every need.
The marble floors were imported from Italy, the chandeliers from France, and my bedroom alone was larger than most people’s entire homes.
Every morning I would wake up to the sound of the call to prayer echoing through golden speakers installed throughout our estate.
My father had spared no expense in creating what he called our family’s spiritual sanctuary.
By age 12, I had memorized the entire Quran in Arabic.
My father called me his spiritual heir, the son who would carry on our family’s religious legacy.
I can still remember the pride in his eyes when I would recite verses flawlessly before visiting religious leaders.
They would nod approvingly and tell him that Allah had blessed him with a gifted son.
My mother would dress me in white robes embroidered with gold thread and I felt like I was performing for the most important audience in the world.
I performed Hajj to Mecca four times, led prayers for our extended family gatherings and was studying under the kingdom’s most respected Islamic scholars to become a religious leader myself.
Each pilgrimage felt more elaborate than the laSt. We traveled in private jets, stayed in luxury accommodations that overlooked the Cabba, and had personal security, ensuring our safety among the millions of other pilgriMs. I thought this was what true devotion looked like.
I thought the comfort and ease were signs of Allah’s favor upon our family.
But beneath all the golden glory, I felt spiritually empty.
It was like I was performing for an audience that wasn’t there.
During the quiet moments between prayers, when the palace fell silent and the servants retreated to their quarters, I would sit in my private mosque and wonder why my heart felt so cold.
The beautiful Arabic prayers I recited felt like empty words bouncing off the ornate ceiling.
I was speaking, but no one seemed to be listening.
My daily routine was structured to the minute.
500 a.m. prayers in my private mosque, followed by breakfast served on gold plates while I reviewed verses from the Quran.
At 7, my private Islamic tutor would arrive to continue my religious education.
We would discuss theology, Islamic law, and my future responsibilities as a religious leader in our family.
By 10, I would join my father for business meetings, learning about our oil investments and charitable foundations.
Lunch was always a formal affair, often with visiting dignitaries or religious authorities.
My father would parade me before these important guests like I was some kind of trophy.
This is my son who will carry on our family’s religious legacy.
He would announce proudly.
The visitors would ask me to recite specific Quranic verses or share my thoughts on various Islamic teachings.
I performed perfectly every time, giving them exactly what they wanted to hear.
But inside, I felt like an actor playing a role I didn’t understand.