Saudi judge signs his own daughter’s death warrant for leaving Islam…

The Hammer of Apostasy

Part One: The Gilded Prison

The first thing I ever learned was that honor was more precious than life itself.

My father, Judge Ibrahim Al-Mansour, had built his reputation on that principle. He was known throughout the Kingdom as “the Hammer of Apostasy”—a man whose very name struck terror into the hearts of those who dared to question the absolute authority of Islam. In his thirty years on the bench, he had signed the death warrants of forty-seven men and twelve women, all convicted of leaving the faith. Each signature was delivered with the same cold precision, the same unwavering certainty that he was executing the will of Allah.

“Our family,” he told me when I was barely old enough to understand the words, “has been entrusted with the sacred duty of preserving the purity of Islam. Your grandfather was a judge. His father was a judge. And one day, if Allah wills it, you will carry on this legacy in your own way. Not as a judge—that is not a woman’s role—but as a woman of such impeccable faith that your very existence will be a testament to the truth of our religion.”

I was Layla Al-Mansour, born in the year 2000 in a sprawling villa in the diplomatic quarter of Riyadh. My mother, Amira, was my father’s second wife, brought into the household to produce a daughter after six sons had failed to satisfy my father’s desire for a female child. I was her only living child—two brothers had died in infancy—and from the moment I drew my first breath, I was surrounded by an intensity of love that bordered on suffocation.

My mother was a woman of quiet, unshakeable faith. She had memorized the Quran by age nine, had married my father at sixteen, and had devoted her entire existence to being the perfect wife and mother. She taught me to pray before I could speak in full sentences. She corrected my recitation of the Fatiha with the same meticulous attention that a jeweler might give to a precious stone. She dressed me in the niqab from the time I could walk, covering my face and body in the black fabric that would define my public existence for the rest of my life.

“You are the jewel of our family,” she would whisper to me at night, tucking me into bed. “Every gesture you make, every word you speak, every step you take—it all reflects on your father’s honor. Never forget that.”

I didn’t forget. I couldn’t forget. It was the air I breathed, the water I drank, the constant background hum of my entire existence.

By age seven, I could recite the Quran with flawless tajweed. By age nine, I had begun memorizing the entire book, spending hours each day in my father’s study, repeating verses until my voice was hoarse. My father would sit in his high-backed leather chair, his eyes closed in apparent ecstasy, and murmur encouragement.

“Mashallah, Layla. You are a gift from Allah. You will be the most learned woman in the Kingdom.”

His pride in me was intoxicating. I would have done anything to maintain that approval, that warmth in his eyes, that sense of being seen and valued. I would have cut out my own tongue rather than disappoint him.

And so I became the perfect daughter.

I wore the niqab without complaint. I memorized the Quran by age eleven, finishing the entire 114 surahs on the night of Laylat al-Qadr, the holiest night of the Islamic calendar. My father wept with joy and proclaimed that I was destined for greatness. I studied Islamic jurisprudence at Princess Nourah bint Abdulrahman University, graduating with honors. I wrote papers on women’s rights in Islam, defending the faith against Western accusations of misogyny. I debated male scholars and won. I was invited to speak at conferences, to appear on religious television programs, to become a symbol of what a modern, educated, devout Muslim woman could be.

But inside my heart, a silent war was raging.

No matter how many times I performed tawaf around the Kaaba, no matter how many extra night prayers I offered, no matter how many verses I recited with perfect devotion, I felt an emptiness that grew deeper every year. I smiled for my family and the community, but alone at night I cried, wondering why the God I served so faithfully felt so far away.

There were moments when I would stand in the middle of my room, surrounded by the books and trophies and awards that testified to my piety, and I would feel like a stranger in my own skin. Who was Layla, really? Was she merely the sum of her father’s expectations? A vessel for tradition? A walking, talking Quran reciter with no soul of her own?

I tried to push the questions away. I tried to drown them in more prayers, more fasting, more acts of charity. But the emptiness persisted, a hollow ache in the center of my chest that nothing seemed to fill.

Part Two: The Crack in the Wall

In the spring of 2023, when I was twenty-three years old, an unexpected opportunity presented itself.

Princess Nourah University had partnered with several European institutions to create an exchange program for exceptional female students. The program was designed to foster “cross-cultural understanding” and “intellectual exchange” between the Muslim world and the West. I was one of twelve women selected to participate.

My father was deeply ambivalent. He had always been suspicious of the West, viewing it as a cesspool of immorality and secular corruption. But he was also a man who valued prestige, and the opportunity for his daughter to represent the Kingdom on an international stage was not something he could easily dismiss.

“London,” he said, his fingers drumming on his desk, “is a city of sin. There are churches on every corner, women walking around half-naked, and morality is a foreign concept. Are you certain you can navigate such a place without losing your faith?”

“I am certain, Father,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “The Prophet himself said, ‘Seek knowledge even as far as China.’ How can I be a true scholar if I refuse to understand those who disagree with me?”

He studied me for a long moment, his judge’s eyes searching for any hint of deception. Finally, he nodded.

“Very well. You may go. But you will be accompanied by your brother Khalid at all times. You will wear your niqab. You will speak to no Western men. And you will return to me as the same righteous daughter who leaves.”

“I promise, Father.”

It was a promise I would not be able to keep.

London was overwhelming. The noise, the crowds, the sheer diversity of humanity—it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. In Riyadh, I had been surrounded by people who looked like me, dressed like me, believed like me. In London, I was confronted with a kaleidoscope of cultures, religions, and worldviews.

The academic program was demanding and stimulating. We attended lectures on comparative religion, participated in seminars on Islamic history, and visited museums and cultural sites. I performed well, as I always did, earning the respect of my professors and peers.

But it was outside the classroom that my life began to change.

I had been in London for three weeks when I met Professor Sarah Williams.

She was a middle-aged British woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. She taught comparative religion at the university and had volunteered to mentor the Saudi students during our stay. I was immediately drawn to her gentleness, her patience, her obvious love for her students.

One afternoon, she invited me to her office for tea. I accepted, grateful for the opportunity to practice my English in a private setting.

“Layla,” she said, pouring me a cup of Earl Grey, “I’ve noticed that you seem… troubled. Is everything all right?”

I looked at her, surprised. I had become so accustomed to hiding my inner turmoil that I had forgotten that some people might actually be able to see it.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. “I just miss my family.”

She smiled gently. “Of course. That’s natural. But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something that’s weighing on your heart.”

I hesitated. I had never spoken to anyone about the emptiness inside me. It was too dangerous, too shameful. But there was something about Professor Williams that made me feel safe.

“Sometimes,” I said slowly, “I feel like… like I’m going through the motions. Like I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do, but inside, I’m empty. I pray, I fast, I study. But I feel nothing. I feel like God is distant, unreachable. Like He doesn’t hear me.”

Professor Williams nodded thoughtfully. “That must be very difficult.”

“It’s unbearable,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve read the entire Quran multiple times. I’ve memorized it. I’ve performed Hajj. I’ve prayed until my knees were raw. But nothing changes. The emptiness is still there.”

She reached out and placed her hand on mine. Her touch was warm, comforting.

“Layla, may I share something with you?”

“Of course.”

“When I was a young woman, I felt exactly the same way. I was raised in a very strict religious household. I went to church every Sunday. I followed all the rules. But inside, I was empty. I felt like I was performing, not living. Like I was trying to earn a love that I could never quite reach.”

I stared at her. “What did you do?”

She smiled. “I met someone. Someone who changed everything. Someone who filled that emptiness and made me whole.”

“Who?”

Her eyes shone with a gentle light. “I met Jesus.”

The name hit me like a slap in the face. Jesus. Isa. The prophet of Islam. The man who, according to our tradition, was born of a virgin, performed miracles, and would return at the end of time. But also, according to our tradition, a man who was not the Son of God. A man who did not die on a cross. A man who was simply a messenger, a servant, a forerunner to the true Prophet.

“I don’t understand,” I said, pulling my hand away. “What do you mean, you met Jesus?”

“I mean I came to know Him personally,” she said. “Not as a prophet, not as a figure from history, but as my Lord and Savior. I read the Gospels and discovered that Jesus isn’t just a teacher—He’s the Son of God. He came to earth to save us from our sins. He died on the cross and rose again. And He offers forgiveness and eternal life to everyone who believes in Him.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what Islam teaches.”

“I know. But I’m not asking you to believe what Islam teaches. I’m asking you to consider what your heart is telling you. You’ve tried everything else, Layla. Maybe it’s time to try something new.”

I stood up abruptly. “I should go. Thank you for the tea.”

“Layla, wait—”

“I have to go.”

I fled her office and didn’t look back.

But her words followed me. They echoed in my mind as I walked through the streets of London, as I attended my classes, as I lay in bed at night trying to sleep.

You’ve tried everything else, Layla. Maybe it’s time to try something new.

Part Three: The Seed of Truth

I tried to resist. I tried to push the thought away, to bury it under layers of Islamic theology and devotion. But the more I resisted, the more persistent it became.

One evening, unable to sleep, I took a walk through the streets of London. It was raining, a soft drizzle that glistened under the streetlights. I had told Khalid I was going to the hotel’s prayer room, but instead I found myself walking in the opposite direction, drawn by something I couldn’t name.

I found myself outside a small church, its stone walls glowing in the lamplight. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The church was empty, lit only by candles flickering on the altar. The air smelled of incense and old wood. I walked forward, my footsteps echoing in the silence, and stopped in front of a large wooden cross.

I had seen crosses before. They were symbols of Christianity, but they had never meant anything to me. Now, for some reason, I couldn’t look away.

I stared at that cross for a long time. I thought about what Professor Williams had told me about Jesus dying on a cross to save people from their sins. It was blasphemy, of course. A prophet of Allah would never be subjected to such a humiliating death. And yet…

Maybe it’s time to try something new.

I knelt down on the cold stone floor and closed my eyes. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was hoping for. But I opened my mouth and began to pray.

“Isa,” I said, using the Islamic name for Jesus. “I don’t know if You can hear me. I don’t know if You are who Professor Williams says You are. But I’m desperate. I’ve been empty for so long. I’ve tried everything I know, and nothing has worked. Please, if You’re real, show me. Please, fill this emptiness inside me. Please…”

I don’t know how long I knelt there. Minutes? Hours? But at some point, I felt something shift inside me. It wasn’t a dramatic vision or a voice from heaven. It was something quieter, gentler. A warmth spreading through my chest, like sunlight breaking through clouds. A peace that I had never felt before. A sense of being loved, truly loved, for the first time in my life.

And then, in the stillness of that church, I heard a voice. It wasn’t an audible voice, but it was clearer than any sound I had ever heard. A voice that spoke directly to my heart:

“Layla, I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly. Do not be afraid. I am with you always.”

Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t understand everything that was happening. I didn’t have all the theological answers. But in that moment, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: Jesus was real. He was alive. And He loved me.

That night, in that small London church, I gave my heart to Jesus Christ.

Part Four: The Unraveling

Returning to Riyadh was like stepping into a nightmare.

The city that had once been home now felt like a prison. Every sight, every sound, every familiar custom seemed designed to suffocate me. I went through the motions of my daily life, but something fundamental inside me had changed. I was like a bird that had tasted freedom and then been thrust back into a cage.

I tried to hide my new faith. I knew the consequences if I was discovered. Apostasy in Saudi Arabia was punishable by death. And my father was the Hammer of Apostasy. He had signed the death warrants of dozens of people. What would he do if he found out that his own daughter had abandoned Islam?

I still prayed five times a day, but I prayed in the name of Jesus. I still fasted during Ramadan, but I fasted as an act of devotion to my new Lord. I still wore the niqab, but I wore it as a woman who knew she was loved by her Savior.

But the mask was heavy. Every conversation with my family felt like a lie. Every time my father expressed pride in me, I felt a pang of guilt. Every time my mother spoke about my future marriage to a devout Muslim man, I felt my heart sink.

I needed something to sustain me. I needed the Word of God.

Through a circuitous route, I obtained an Arabic Bible. It was smuggled into the country by a friend of a friend of a friend, wrapped in a nondescript package and delivered to a P.O. box I had set up under a pseudonym. I hid it in a secret compartment in my room, beneath a loose floorboard under my bed.

At night, when the house was silent and my family was asleep, I would retrieve that Bible and read it by the light of my phone screen. I read the Gospels, the letters of Paul, the Psalms. I read about the love of God, the grace of Jesus, the hope of eternal life. And I wept with joy.

But secrets have a way of coming to light.

Part Five: The Confrontation

It was the tenth of Muharram, the Day of Ashura, a day of fasting and mourning for the Shia community. Our family was Sunni, but we observed the fast out of tradition. I had gone to the mosque for the dawn prayer, then returned home to continue my studies.

That evening, my father summoned me to his study. His voice was calm, too calm. I knew that voice. It was the voice he used when he was about to deliver a verdict.

I entered his study with my heart pounding. He was sitting in his leather chair, his back to me, staring out the window at the Riyadh skyline.

“Close the door, Layla.”

I closed it.

“Sit down.”

I sat.

My father turned to face me. In his hand, he held something that made my blood run cold. My Bible. The Arabic Bible I had hidden beneath my floorboard.

“Father,” I began, but he held up his hand, cutting me off.

“I found this in your room,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. “It was hidden under your bed, in a secret compartment. Did you think I would never find it? Did you think I was so blind, so stupid, that I wouldn’t notice my own daughter reading the corrupt scriptures of the Christians?”

“Father, please, let me explain—”

“Explain?” He stood up, and I saw that his hands were shaking. “Explain what? How my daughter, the daughter of the Hammer of Apostasy, has betrayed her faith? How she has brought dishonor on our family? How she has made a mockery of everything I have taught her?”

Tears were streaming down my face. “Father, I’m not trying to dishonor you. I’ve found the truth. I’ve found Jesus, and He has filled the emptiness that I’ve felt my whole life. I’ve found peace. I’ve found love. I’ve found—”

“The truth?” He spat the words like poison. “You know nothing of truth. You have been deceived, led astray by Western propaganda and Christian lies. You have abandoned the faith of your fathers, the faith that has guided our family for generations.”

“Father, please, just listen to me. Just for one moment. Let me tell you about Jesus. Let me tell you about His love. He died for us, Father. He died for our sins. He rose again. He offers salvation, eternal life—”

“Silence!” he roared. “I will not listen to this blasphemy. You are no longer my daughter. You are an apostate, an enemy of Allah, a traitor to your family and your country.”

I fell to my knees. “Father, please. I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Too late,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “You have already lost me.”

He walked to his desk and sat down. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write. I watched, horrified, as he wrote out a legal document, his signature, his official seal.

“Father, what are you doing?”

He finished writing and held up the document for me to see. It was a death warrant. My death warrant. The death warrant of Layla Al-Mansour, daughter of Judge Ibrahim Al-Mansour, for the crime of apostasy.

“I have signed your death warrant,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow, you will be tried in a Sharia court. The sentence will be public beheading. Your head will be displayed in the square as a warning to all who would abandon the faith.”

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. My father, the man who had raised me, who had loved me, who had called me his jewel, had just signed my death warrant.

“Father, please—”

“Get out,” he said. “You are no longer my daughter. You are a criminal, a traitor, a blasphemer. Tomorrow, you will face the consequences.”

I stumbled out of his study, my world shattered.

Part Six: The Trial

The trial was swift and brutal.

I was arrested that night by the religious police, dragged from my home in the darkness, thrown into a cold, windowless cell. I was charged with apostasy, blasphemy, and proselytizing. The evidence was damning: my hidden Bible, my online correspondence with Christian groups, my own testimony.

The trial was held three days later in a courtroom in Riyadh. My father presided as the judge. He wore his black robes, his expression cold and unreadable. He didn’t look at me. He couldn’t.

The prosecutor read the charges in a monotone. I was given a chance to speak in my defense. I stood up, my hands shaking, and addressed the court.

“Your honor, I am not a traitor. I am a follower of Jesus Christ. I was raised in the faith of my ancestors, and I honor that faith. But I found something in Jesus that I could not find anywhere else: love, forgiveness, and the promise of eternal life. I ask you to listen to my story. I ask you to consider what I have found. I ask you—”

“Silence!” my father roared, his voice echoing through the courtroom. “This is a court of law, not a pulpit for your blasphemy. You have admitted your guilt. Do you have anything else to say?”

I looked at him, this man who had once been my father, who had once loved me, who had signed my death warrant. And I felt a surge of compassion for him. He was so trapped in his religion, so blind to the truth.

“Your honor,” I said, “I pray that one day you will know the love of Jesus. I forgive you for what you are about to do. And I will see you in paradise.”

The courtroom erupted in murmurs. My father’s face twitched, but he didn’t speak. He simply pounded his gavel and pronounced the sentence.

“Layla Al-Mansour, you are sentenced to public beheading in the execution square of Riyadh. The sentence will be carried out at dawn tomorrow.”

I was escorted out of the courtroom and back to my cell.

Part Seven: The Visit

That night, alone in my cold cell, I waited for death.

I had expected to be terrified. I had expected to be consumed by fear and regret. Instead, I felt a strange sense of peace. I had given my life to Jesus, and I knew that whether I lived or died, I belonged to Him.

I knelt on the concrete floor and began to pray.

“Lord Jesus,” I whispered, “I don’t know how to face tomorrow. I don’t know how to die. But I trust You. I trust that You are with me, that You will never leave me or forsake me. Please, give me strength. Give me courage. And please, have mercy on my father. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

And then something extraordinary happened.

The cell filled with the fragrance of roses—fresh, blooming roses, as though I were standing in the middle of a garden. A soft, warm light began to glow in the corner of the room. It grew brighter, more luminous, until it was impossible to look away.

In the center of that light stood a woman. She was dressed in a simple blue and white robe, her face radiating pure motherly love. Her eyes were full of compassion, full of tenderness. I knew instantly who she was.

“Mary,” I breathed. “Mary, the mother of Jesus.”

She smiled, and her smile was like sunshine on a winter day. “My daughter,” she said, her voice like the sound of gentle rain, “do not be afraid. I have prayed for you. I have interceded for you. My Son Jesus is with you. He will never leave you.”

I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by her presence. “I don’t understand. Why are you here? Why would you come to me?”

She stepped closer, reaching out and placing her hand on my head. Her touch was warm, real, alive. “Because you are my daughter too. You belong to my Son, and that makes you part of my family. I have watched you, Layla. I have seen your tears. I have heard your prayers. And I am so proud of you.”

“Mary, I’m so scared. I don’t know how to face tomorrow. I don’t know how to die.”

“Little one,” she said gently, “my Son is the Resurrection and the Life. Tomorrow, the world will see His power. Hold on to your faith. Trust in His love. And watch what He will do.”

And then she was gone. The light faded. The fragrance of roses slowly dissipated.

But I was no longer afraid.

Part Eight: The Execution

The morning of my execution dawned clear and bright. The sun rose over the city of Riyadh, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. It was going to be a beautiful day.

I was led out of my cell, my hands bound behind my back, my feet shackled together. The guards were rough, but I didn’t resist. I walked forward, step by step, toward the execution square.

The square was packed with thousands of people. They had come to witness the execution of the daughter of the Hammer of Apostasy, the woman who had dared to betray Islam. I could hear their voices, a low roar of excitement and anticipation.

The execution platform stood in the center of the square. There was a wooden block for my head, a basket for my remains, and a man with a sword—the executioner. He was a large, grim-faced man who had performed this duty many times before.

And there, in a place of honor on a raised dais, sat my father. He was dressed in his black robes, his face like stone. He didn’t look at me. He couldn’t.

I was led up the steps to the platform. The crowd fell silent, waiting. The executioner positioned me in front of the block. I knelt down, my neck over the wood.

The executioner raised his sword.

And then everything changed.

A brilliant light exploded across the entire square—a light so intense, so pure, that everyone had to shield their eyes. The fragrance of roses swept through the crowd, so powerful that many people began weeping. The executioner’s sword shattered into pieces in his hands, the shards falling to the ground with a metallic clatter.

The ropes binding my wrists fell away. The shackles on my feet snapped open. I was free.

And then a voice echoed across the square. It wasn’t a loud voice, but every single person heard it clearly, as though it were speaking directly into their hearts:

“This is My beloved daughter, in whom I am well pleased. She belongs to Me. I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

The crowd erupted into chaos. Hundreds of people fell to their knees, weeping, praying, crying out. Some were speaking in languages I didn’t recognize. Some were screaming, some were laughing, some were simply staring in wonder.

I stood up slowly, alive and unharmed. My father was frozen on the dais, tears streaming down his face for the first time in his life. His eyes met mine, and I saw something I had never seen before: humility. Brokenness. A desperate need for something he didn’t understand.

I walked toward him, the crowd parting before me like the Red Sea. I climbed the steps to the dais and stood before him.

“Father,” I said, my voice soft but steady, “Jesus showed me the truth. He loves you too. He died for you, Father. He died for all of us. Please, just give me a chance to explain. Please.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his face a mask of shock and confusion. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“In my chambers,” he said. “Tonight.”

The officials tried to stop me, tried to enforce the sentence. But no one dared to lay a hand on me. They had seen what had happened. They knew that something supernatural, something beyond their control, had occurred. They fell back, defeated.

I walked out of the square, out of the city, and into a future I couldn’t imagine.

Part Nine: The Transformation

That night, in my father’s private chambers, surrounded by the towering shelves of Islamic texts and legal documents, we talked for hours.

I told him everything—about the emptiness I had felt my whole life, about the experience in London, about the night I gave my heart to Jesus. I told him about the vision of Mary in my cell, about the fragrance of roses, about the peace that had filled me. I told him about Jesus’s promise that I would live to be a witness to His name.

My father listened in silence, his face a mask of concentration. When I finished, he took the Bible I had offered him and opened it.

“I’ve read parts of this before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “In my younger days, I was curious. I wanted to understand the beliefs of the Christians. But I was told it was forbidden, that it would lead me astray. So I stopped.”

“Read it now, Father,” I urged. “Read it with an open heart. Let God speak to you.”

And so, together, we read the Gospel of John. We read about the Word that was in the beginning. We read about Jesus turning water into wine, healing the blind, raising Lazarus from the dead. We read about His suffering and death, His resurrection and ascension. And when we reached the moment when Jesus appears to doubting Thomas and says, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed,” my father began to weep.

“Layla,” he said, his voice broken, “all my life I have been taught that Jesus was just a prophet. A messenger. A servant of Allah. But what I have just read… this is not the story of a servant. This is the story of God.”

“Father,” I said gently, “God loves you. He wants you to be His child. Will you accept Him?”

My father was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he got to his knees. He looked up at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face, and he prayed:

“Lord Jesus, forgive me. I have been blind. I have been wrong. I have condemned innocent people to death. I have persecuted your children, including my own daughter. Please, forgive me. I believe that You are the Son of God. I believe that You died for my sins and rose again. I give my life to You. Please, make me new.”

And in that moment, my father was born again.

Part Ten: The New Life

Today, I live in a place of safety. My father, using his connections and influence, arranged for my escape from the Kingdom. I am now living in a European country, studying theology at a Christian university. But my heart remains in Saudi Arabia.

The underground church there continues to grow. My father, though he no longer sits on the bench, continues to use his influence to protect believers and help them leave the country when necessary. He has written a book about his transformation, though it can only be published outside the Kingdom.

Several members of my extended family have also come to faith. My mother is still struggling, still trapped between her love for me and her devotion to the religion she was raised in. But I pray for her every day, and I trust that God is working in her heart.

The story of what happened in the execution square has spread throughout the Kingdom and beyond. Despite the government’s attempts to suppress it, it has become a source of hope for many. People who had never dared to question their faith are now asking questions. People who had felt empty are now seeking answers.

I often think back to that moment in my cell, when Mary appeared to me. I remember her words: “My Son Jesus is with you. He will never leave you.” And I know, with every fiber of my being, that she was right.

Jesus is with me. He will never leave me. And He is with everyone who calls upon His name.

My name is Layla Al-Mansour. I was born in the heart of Riyadh, the daughter of the most feared judge in the Kingdom. My father signed my death warrant for leaving Islam. But Mary appeared in my cell, and Jesus performed an impossible miracle in the execution square.

Mary led me to her Son.

And her Son turned my death sentence into the greatest testimony of His power.

May God be glorified forever. Amen.