My name is Prince Faizal.
I am 32 years old, born in Riyad and a member of one of the extended branches of the Saudi royal family.
My grandfather was a cousin to King Fod, which placed our family in a respected but not publicly scrutinized position within the house of Sud.
I was raised to protect Islam with my life and destroy anything that threatened it.
For years, I believed that Christianity was the greatest danger to our kingdom.
I ordered raids.
I burned Bibles.
And I swore that not a single copy of scripture would survive under my watch.
But everything changed the day a Bible refused to burn in front of me.
The pages opened on their own.
And the verse I saw felt like someone was speaking directly into my soul.
That moment began a journey I never expected.
A journey that led me from the palace prayer room to an encounter with Jesus himself.
And what I meant for destruction, God turned into salvation, not just for me, but for hundreds of others.
This is the story of how a Sudi prince trying to erase every Bible in the kingdom met the one he never believed existed.
We lived in a villa near the Almala’s district, close enough to the royal heart of the kingdom to feel its weight, yet far enough to live without the constant attention placed on the most powerful princes.
Growing up in this environment meant that from childhood, I was groomed to understand discipline, loyalty, and absolute devotion to Islam.
My father, a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Interior, often reminded me that our lineage carried a sacred responsibility to protect the purity of Islam in the land where the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, walked.
Those words shaped the foundation of my identity long before I understood the world outside palace walls.
From the time I was seven, imams were appointed to teach me and my siblings privately inside the palace compound.
My earliest memories include sitting cross-legged on prayer mats while the imam recited verses from the Quran and explained the importance of safeguarding the faith from external influences.
We were taught that foreign religions, particularly Christianity, posed a serious threat to the unity of Muslims and that allowing Bibles to enter our land was not just careless, it was dishonoring Allah.
These teachings became the center of my world view.
During holidays, especially Ramadan and aid, we traveled to Mecca and Medina and observing millions of Muslims worshiing together reinforced the belief that Saudi Arabia held a divine mandate to protect Islamic purity.
By my teenage years, I had already committed myself to defending Islam with a passion that felt as natural as breathing.
When I turned 21, I began joining my father during his meetings in the interior ministry.
This gatherings were held in discrete offices along King Fod Road, often attended by senior clerics, intelligence officers, and highranking advisors.
The discussions revolved around threats to national security, but increasingly the conversation shifted toward the rising presence of Christian materials smuggled in by migrant workers.
Officers reported finding Bibles in construction sites, airports, and residential compounds occupied by foreigners.
At first, I thought they were exaggerating, but soon I began receiving detailed reports showing photos of confiscated scriptures, handwritten notes from underground prayer groups, and intelligence logs from raids in Jedha, Dam, and Medina.
The evidence unsettled me deeply.
I felt a growing anger that people would dare to bring such materials into the land of the two holy mosques, defying both the law and the religious identity of Saudi Arabia.
One moment that changed everything occurred during an inspection at King Abdulaziz International Airport in Jeda.
I was there to observe new security protocols, but an intelligence officer pulled me aside with a grave expression.
He presented a small box containing confiscated Christian tracks and pocket-sized Bibles found inside the luggage of migrant workers arriving from the Philippines and Ethiopia.
Some had been hidden inside shampoo bottles and food containers, suggesting the workers knew they were smuggling something forbidden.
To me, it felt like an organized attempt to infiltrate our religious foundation.
Standing there in the airport’s inspection hall, surrounded by security officers who looked to me for a direction, I felt a surge of determination.
I told myself that Allah had placed me in the royal family for a reason and this was part of it.
That night back in Riyad, I couldn’t sleep.
I walked through the palace courtyard under the dim lights, thinking about the reports, the hidden scriptures, the secret gatherings.
I felt humiliated that something like this was happening under our watch.
The next morning, I attended a scheduled meeting with several imams, one of whom was a highly respected scholar who had advised members of the royal family for decades.
When the topic shifted again to the spread of Christian materials among migrant workers, the Imam spoke with urgency.
He said, “A land protected by Allah must not allow the books of unbelievers to circulate freely among its people.
” This is how corruption begins.
His words struck me like a command.
I felt as though he was speaking directly to me, charging me with a mission that could not be ignored.
Later that afternoon, I convened a private meeting inside a secured conference hall in Riyad.
The attendees included security commanders, airport supervisors, and religious adviserss.
I told them plainly that we needed to take decisive action.
I announced a new initiative, one that I believed would restore religious integrity and demonstrate our commitment to Allah.
I called it the National Scripture Eradication Program.
Its purpose was simple.
To identify, confiscate and destroy v every Bible within the kingdom.
I gave the program a strict timeline.
90 days to eliminate all Christian scriptures in Saudi Arabia.
The officials in the room nodded with approval.
Some praised my devotion.
Others said, “Allah would honor my efforts.
Their support made me feel powerful, like I was fulfilling a divine obligation tied to my royal bloodline.
Over the next few weeks, the program expanded with astonishing speed.
I personally oversaw the planning of raids in labor camps across Jedha, Riyad, Dam, and Medina.
Teams were formed to inspect airport cargo, residential compounds, and even private rooms in hospitals where foreign nurses worked.
I reviewed daily intelligence summaries, noting each location where a Bible had been found.
Every report tightened my resolve.
I traveled frequently between Riyad and Jedha, visiting sites where raids were scheduled, ensuring that officers understood the seriousness of our mission.
To me, this wasn’t simply about law enforcement.
It felt like a sacred duty to protect the land of Islam from contamination.
During one inspection in a labor housing area near the industrial outskirts of Jedha, I watched officers pull out several worn out Bibles from a worker’s suitcase.
The man pleaded that they were gifts for friends back home, but I felt nothing but anger.
In my eyes, he was a threat to the purity of our faith.
I ordered the scriptures confiscated and warned the supervisors that any lapse in monitoring would be taken as negligence.
My tone during that visit shocked even some of the officers, but I didn’t care.
My commitment to eradicating these materials felt more important than their discomfort.
What I did not realize at the time was that my pride was blinding me.
I believed I was standing for Allah, but I was also feeding an inner desire for approval from clerics, from my father, and from the royal family as a whole.
I wanted them to see me as a strong defender of Islam, someone worthy of leading one day.
In the palace, people began whispering that Prince Fisal was taking bold action for the sake of the kingdom.
Those whispers only fueled my determination.
Weeks passed and the confiscations increased.
But instead of feeling satisfied, I became more restless.
I pushed the officers harder, demanding more raids, more inspections, more thorough searches.
I traveled from Riyad to Jiden, observing airport seizures, and personally questioning migrants caught with Christian materials.
Some cried, others trembled, yet I remained unmoved.
In my mind, I believed I was obeying Allah and honoring the royal family.
If someone had told me then that this mission, the one I believed was righteous and necessary, would become the very road that shattered everything I thought I knew.
I would have dismissed them instantly.
I had no idea that my plan to remove every Bible in Saudi Arabia was about to backfire in ways that would change the course of my life forever.
When I returned to Jedha to oversee another round of inspections, I felt a stronger urgency than before, as if the success of the entire program depended on my presence.
The officers had scheduled a major sweep of a large labor camp near the industrial zone, an area known for housing migrants from the Philippines, India, and Ethiopia.
Reports indicated that Christian materials were more common in that camp than in others, so I wanted to be there personally.
When I arrived, the camp supervisors lined up nervously to greet me, and the officers searched the rooms with increased intensity.
As I walked through the narrow corridors, the workers watched with frightened eyes, and I felt a mixture of authority and expectation pressing against my chest.
Every corner of that camp represented another chance to prove that I was fulfilling my duty to Islam and to the royal family.
And with each step, I felt my determination growing stronger.
Inside one of the rooms, an officer called out to me, his voice tense.
When I entered, he held up a small worn New Testament wrapped in a white cloth.
It belonged to a Filipina cleaner named Maria, a quiet woman in her late 40s, who stood trembling beside her bed.
She insisted the Bible was only for personal devotion, and begged the officers not to harm her.
But her please did nothing to soften my anger.
To me, her possession of that book meant rebellion against our laws and a threat to the purity of our land.
I ordered the workers to gather in the courtyard so that the confiscation could be made an example.
The officers knew what that meant.
public display, public warning, public humiliation for the person involved.
As they ushered the workers outside, I felt certain I was acting for Allah.
Certain that my leadership would be honored and certain that nothing spiritual could come from the words inside such a small, fragile book.
The courtyard filled quickly with men and women standing in nervous silence.
The desert heat pressed against us and the air smelled of sweat and dust.
Officers formed a circle and in the center stood Maria holding her hands tightly together, mumbling what sounded like a prayer.
I ordered an officer to bring a metal bin.
When it arrived, he dropped the Bible inside.
I asked for a match box and when an officer handed it to me, I felt a sense of righteous purpose rise inside my chest.
I wanted the workers to see that our laws were firm and that foreign religions had no place in Saudi Arabia.
I wanted them to feel the fear of disobedience.
I struck the first match and held it over the small book, expecting the flame to catch quickly on the dry pages.
But as soon as the flame grew, a sudden gust of wind swept through the courtyard, blowing it out instantly.
The workers gasped, and I felt a flicker of annoyance rather than concern.
I assumed it was simply the wind and struck another match.
The second match burned brighter than the first, but the moment I lowered it toward the Bible, another blast of wind extinguished it.
This time the wind felt sharper, stronger, almost deliberate.
The officers looked at one another uneasily, and a few workers whispered among themselves.
I clenched my jaw, refusing to show any hesitation.
I lit a third match, holding it firmly, shielding it slightly with my hand.
But before the flame could touch the pages, a swirl of air, stronger than before, rushed between my hand and the bin, snuffing it out again.
The courtyard fell silent.
Everyone stared at me.
For a moment, the heat of embarrassment washed over my face.
But deeper than that, something colder stirred inside me.
something like confusion, something like fear.
Yet, I pushed it down immediately.
I refused to believe anything unusual had happened.
I refused to consider that this could be anything other than coincidence.
I ordered the officers to bring a lighter so there would be no more interference from the wind.
As the officers moved to follow my command, something unexpected happened.
The Bible, which had lain still inside the bin, shifted slightly.
At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me.
But then the covers began to part.
Slowly, as if guided by an unseen hand, the pages fluttered and settled open.
I stepped closer, unable to hide my curiosity.
The workers stared in a stunned silence.
When I reached the bin, my eyes fell on a line highlighted in faded ink.
You meant evil against me, but Allah meant it for good.
I recognized the reference.
Genesis 50:20.
A Christian verse, a verse meant to comfort believers in hardship.
For a brief second, the words pierced through my confidence like a blade.
I felt something tighten in my chest and I stepped back instinctively as if the words themselves carried weight.
The workers watched me, some with surprise, others with a quiet look of awe that irritated me more than anything else.
My first instinct was to deny the significance of what I had seen.
I told myself the wind, the opening of the book, the highlighted verse, it all had to be coincidence.
I refused to let the workers think they had witnessed something divine.
I snapped at the officers to close the bin and remove it immediately.
I ordered the workers back to their rooms and told the supervisors to increase surveillance.
But inside my mind, the verse would not leave me.
It repeated itself in my thoughts as if someone were whispering the words directly into my ear.
You meant evil against me, but Allah meant it for good.
I tried to push the memory away, but every time I blinked, I saw the highlighted words.
I hated the discomfort they caused.
I hated how unsettled I felt.
I hated that a single Christian verse had found its way inside my thoughts.
On the drive back to my hotel in Jedha that evening, I replayed the scene in my mind over and over again.
I kept asking myself why the Bible refused to burn, why the wind stopped the matches three times, why the book opened on its own and revealed a verse that seemed deliberately chosen.
But each time the questions arose, I crushed them with anger.
I told myself that Christians exaggerated stories of supposed miracles all the time and that I had simply witnessed an unfortunate coincidence.
Yet even as I tried to convince myself, a quiet part of me remained unconvinced.
When I reached the hotel, I performed ablution, hoping prayer would clear the tension growing inside me.
I stood on the prayer mat facing the kibla, reciting familiar verses from the Quran.
But for the first time in my life, the words felt distant, as though my mind was elsewhere pulled toward something I refused to acknowledge.
That night, sleep refused to come.
I lay awake in the dark, the room filled with silence.
Yet my mind felt louder than ever.
I kept seeing the Bible opening, the highlighted verse glowing under the sunlight, the wind putting out the flames.
I turned from side to side, hoping exhaustion would eventually force my eyes shut.
But instead, my thoughts spiraled deeper into confusion.
I wondered whether Allah had been testing me or whether I had misinterpreted the events.
I wondered whether the workers believed they had witnessed a miracle.
And the thought irritated me even more.
The last thing I wanted was for Christians to claim divine intervention inside Saudi Arabia.
At some point, exhaustion overtook me, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep with the verse still echoing in my thoughts.
In the early hours of the morning, I found myself standing in a vast desert in my dream, the sky above me dim and silent.
The sand stretched endlessly in every direction, and the air felt thick and heavy.
Far in the distance, I noticed a man dressed in white walking slowly toward me.
I could not see his face clearly, but his presence felt overwhelming, almost unsettling.
As he drew nearer, I felt a heat rise inside my chest, the same kind of heat I had felt when I saw the highlighted verse earlier.
The man stopped a short distance away from me and held a glowing book in his hand.
When he spoke, his voice was calm, yet carried a power I could not describe.
He said, “You are fighting the wrong enemy.
” Before I could respond, the dream vanished, and I woke up breathless, my heart pounding as though I had run a great distance.
I sat up in bed, shaken.
The dream felt too real, too vivid to dismiss.
I rubbed my face, telling myself it was simply the result of stress, overwork, and the pressure of leading a kingdomwide religious operation.
Still, the man in white, the glowing book, the voice that felt like it pierced through my chest, they lingered in my thoughts long after I woke.
I tried to push the memory aside, but it left an imprint that I could not shake off.
For the first time, doubt cracked the armor of certainty I had worn my entire life.
I tried repeating verses from the Quran to strengthen myself, but even that felt strangely hollow.
Something had shifted and I did not know how to stop it.
The following morning, I returned to Riyad, telling myself I needed to regain control.
I reviewed new intelligence reports, approved additional raids, and instructed officers to be even more aggressive in their inspections.
I convinced myself that action would silence the uneasiness growing inside me.
Yet, every time I glanced at a report mentioning confiscated Bibles, a strange discomfort stirred in my chest.
I forced myself to ignore it.
I told myself that devotion to Islam meant refusing to be swayed by emotional reactions or strange dreams.
I believed I could suppress whatever was happening inside me simply by working harder, pushing stronger, and showing more determination.
What I did not realize was that my fight against the Bible had only just begun, and the events in that labor camp were nothing compared to what awaited me next.
In the days after the dream, I tried to convince myself that nothing unusual had happened.
But the memory of the man in white stayed with me like a shadow I could not escape.
Even when I sat inside my office in Riyad reviewing reports, my mind drifted back to that glowing book he held in his hand.
I told myself repeatedly that it was just a dream caused by stress.
Yet each night when I tried to sleep, I felt a strange heaviness inside my chest.
The more I tried to dismiss it, the stronger it became.
I began waking up several times throughout the night, sometimes with my heart racing, other times drenched in sweat.
And each time the same image greeted my thoughts, the man standing in the desert, telling me I was fighting the wrong enemy.
The uncertainty that settled inside me grew quietly but steadily.
And even though I tried to ignore it, I could feel something inside me beginning to unravel.
The dream returned a second time only two nights later.
Once again, I found myself in the same desert, under the same silent sky, watching the same figure approach me in white.
His face remained hidden, but his presence felt even stronger than before.
This time, he spoke only one sentence.
You cannot destroy what I protect.
His voice carried a weight that sent a shiver down my spine, and before I could ask him who he was or what he meant, I woke up gasping for air.
I sat upright in bed for several minutes, trying to calm my breathing, but the words followed me into the morning like a warning I did not want to face.
I splashed water on my face, performed ablution, and stood for fajar prayer.
But even as I recited the familiar verses, my mind drifted back to the dream.
I hated that something so foreign could disturb my devotion.
I hated feeling unsettled, confused, or vulnerable.
Above all, I hated the thought that the events at the labor camp had triggered something far beyond my control.
Determined to regain my senses of authority, I summoned several officers to my office and demanded an update on the raids.
They informed me that confiscations were increasing, but that resistance among workers was starting to grow as well.
Some workers were hiding their Bibles more cleverly, and there were reports of groups gathering secretly in apartments and storage rooms to read together.
Instead of reassuring me, their reports irritated me even more.
It felt as if Christianity was spreading faster than we could contain it, and the idea infuriated me.
I ordered the officers to intensify the inspections across all major cities, including Riyad, Jeda, Medina, and Dam.
I instructed them to expand surveillance within foreign worker neighborhoods like Albata and al-Nasim in Riyad.
I told myself that if I could show the clerics measurable progress, the doubts inside me would disappear.
I believed more action would silence whatever was troubling my spirit.
But instead of feeling stronger, I grew more restless with each passing day.
At night, I found myself lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to every small sound in the palace compound.
I felt as though something was stirring beneath the surface of my thoughts, something I could not control.
When I finally slept, my dreams were filled with flashes of the man in white.
sometimes standing silently, sometimes approaching, sometimes speaking in words that felt like they came from inside me rather than from the figure himself.
By the third time I saw him, I could no longer deny that something unusual was happening.
Even though I tried to attribute everything to stress or exhaustion, deep inside I knew it was more than that.
It felt as if something someone was reaching out to me and the thought terrified me more than I wanted to admit.
Meanwhile, pressure from religious authorities increased.
Senior clerics invited me to more meetings in Riyad, praising the progress of the program, but also urging me to intensify the crackdown.
One imam told me that Allah rewards those who stand firmly against unbelievers and his words struck me with an urgency that pushed me deeper into the mission.
He said that foreign religions spread through weakness and that the kingdom needed strong leaders willing to defend Islam with unwavering zeal.
His expectations felt like chains binding me to the path I had chosen.
I nodded through every meeting, hiding the turmoil inside me.
They believed I was a prince fully committed to eradicating the influence of Christianity and I wanted them to continue believing it.
I feared that admitting any hesitation would expose me to ridicule or disappointment.
I needed them to see me as a defender of Islam, even though my heart was slowly shifting beneath the weight of doubts I could not explain.
I threw myself deeper into the raids, hoping that by acting decisively, I could drown out the voice that kept whispering inside me.
I traveled frequently between uh Briad and Jida, inspecting operations personally and giving harsh orders whenever I sensed hesitation among officers.
I instructed teams to search deeper into luggage compartments, to question workers more aggressively, and to inspect areas previously overlooked.
At one point, I ordered a full sweep of a residential block in Riyad occupied mostly by Filipino and Kenyan workers.
And when officers found Christian pamphlets hidden behind a ceiling panel, I felt a brief surge of validation.
Yet even in those moments of apparent success, the dream and the verse from the Bible lingered in the back of my mind.
The more I tried to suppress them, the more persistent they became.
The strain began affecting my body as well.
I developed headaches that throbbed behind my temples and refused to go away no matter how many painkillers I took.
My appetite diminished, leaving me nauseious after only a few bites.
I began skipping meals, surviving on coffee and small pieces of bread just to keep myself awake during long nights of reports and strategy meetings.
Guards and palace staff noticed the change, but no one dared to ask questions.
I told myself I was simply overworked and that once the 90-day program achieved its goals, everything would return to normal.
But deep down, I knew the problem was not the raids or the pressure.
It was the conflict raging inside me.
A conflict between what I had always believed and what I was beginning to experience.
The more the unrest grew inside me, the more desperate I became to silence it.
I increased the pace of the operation even further, ordering backto back raids across multiple districts.
Some officers hesitated, pointing out that the teams were exhausted.
But I refused to slow down.
I convinced myself that hesitation only helped the spread of Christianity.
I believed that if I pushed harder, if I confiscated more Bibles, if I proved my devotion through action, the dreams would stop.
But they didn’t.
Instead, they intensified.
On the fifth night after the second dream, I found myself once again in the desert.
But this time, I wasn’t standing.
I was kneeling.
The man in white stood beside me.
And though he still said nothing, his presence felt overwhelming, almost comforting yet unsettling.
When I woke from that dream, I felt tears on my face, and the shame I felt afterward drove me into a panic I could not explain.
My officers began noticing changes in my behavior.
During briefings, I snapped more quickly than usual.
I interrupted reports halfway through, demanding results without listening to explanations.
I changed decisions abruptly, sometimes reversing orders within minutes because something inside me felt unsure.
I blamed the officers for not working hard enough.
But I knew the truth.
I was losing control.
Even clerics sensed my agitation.
During one meeting, a respected Imam placed his hand on my shoulder and told me that spiritual battles often test the strongest believers.
He said my uneasiness was simply a sign that I needed to stand firmer against the enemies of Islam.
His words gave me momentary relief, but deep inside the turmoil continued to grow.
By the end of the month, I was sleeping only two or 3 hours a night.
I felt constantly drained yet restless, unable to slow down without feeling as though something terrible would rise within me.
I turned to prayer more frequently, hoping that repeating the verses of the Quran would calm my thoughts.
But each time I tried, the memory of the man in white and the highlighted verse from the Bible resurfaced in my mind.
It became harder and harder to pretend that nothing significant was happening.
I refused to speak about it to anyone, fearing that even mentioning it aloud would give it more power.
I even considered requesting medical evaluation.
But the idea of doctors or clerics questioning my mental state terrified me more than the dreams themselves.
I reminded myself constantly that a prince must appear strong, unwavering, certain.
I could not allow anyone to see weakness in me.
But the turning point came when I received a confidential intelligence report early one morning.
I was sitting in my office, sipping my third cup of coffee, trying to steady my nerves when an officer entered with a sealed envelope.
The report detailed the discovery of an underground Christian gathering right in the heart of Riyad, not far from the Al-Nasim district.
Uh it was described as a secret meeting of migrant workers who gathered weekly to read the Bible and pray together.
The report included photographs of the room, notes on attendees, and a recommendation for immediate intervention.
When I finished raiding, a strange mix of anger, fear, and curiosity rose inside me.
I knew instantly that I needed to go there personally.
Something inside me felt drawn to it.
Not out of devotion to Islam, but out of the same unsettling pull I had been fighting for weeks.
I told myself it was simply my duty as a leader.
Yet part of me knew it was more than that.
I felt that whatever was happening inside me would not end until I confronted this group myself.
I stood from my desk gripping the report tightly and told the officer to prepare the team.
As he rushed out of the room, I felt the weight of what awaited me.
I did not know then that stepping into that underground gathering would become the moment that changed the direction of my entire life.
When the officers finished assembling the team for the raid, I stepped into the armored vehicle waiting near the palace gates.
The engine hummed quietly beneath us as we began the drive toward the Al-Nasim district where the underground gathering was located.
The air felt unusually heavy that evening, thick with a sense of anticipation that made my chest tighten with every passing minute.
The officers spoke to one another in low voices, reviewing the plan, but I barely listened.
My mind was fixed on the report I had read earlier, the photographs of the small room where migrants gathered to worship in secret and the strange pull I felt toward the place.
I kept telling myself I was going there to enforce the law.
But deep inside I knew something else was drawing me.
Something I could not explain.
something that unsettled me even more with every breath I took.
As we approached the narrow street where the meeting was said to take place, I felt my heartbeat quicken.
The building was an old pale colored apartment block with dim lights flickering in the stairwell.
Most residents were migrant workers, and the narrow alley outside the building smelled of cooked rice and detergent from laundry hanging on balconies.
Officers moved quickly, spreading out to surround the entrances.
I stepped out of the vehicle and followed the lead team into the building.
The stair wheel echoed with the sound of our boots hitting the tiles, and each step felt heavier than the last.
When we reached the second floor, an officer pointed to a small door, partially covered with a curtain.
Several voices could be heard inside, soft, calm, completely unaware of what awaited them.
My breath caught slightly, but I shook off the feeling and nodded for the officers to proceed.
They counted to three and then forced the door open.
Inside the room was filled with about 20 people sitting in a circle on the floor.
They were men and women from the Philippines, Kenya, India, and Ethiopia.
Each holding a worn Bible or notebook.
The moment we burst in, they gasped, some trembling, others covering their faces in fear.
But instead of screaming or trying to run, most of them slowly knelt down, lifting their hands in surrender.
The officers shouted orders, instructing them to stand against the walls.
But the people did something none of us expected.
They began praying for us.
Their voices rose softly in unison, asking God to protect us, to touch our hearts, and to forgive us for the raid.
The site confused me deeply.
I had seen criminals resist arrest or shout in anger, but I had never seen a group of people respond with prayer and calmness, especially knowing the consequences they might face.
Something about their reaction unsettled me in a way I could not put into words.
One man among them, a Filipino in his late 30s, slowly stepped forward with his hands raised.
He wasn’t trembling like the others.
He looked at me with eyes filled not with fear but with compassion, something I had not expected to see.
His calmness irritated me, yet I couldn’t look away.
He approached it cautiously, holding a small Bible with a cracked brown cover.
When he stood a few feet from me, he stopped, lowered his gaze respectfully, and said, “Sir, please take this.
” His voice was steady, almost gentle.
For a moment, I froze.
No one had ever offered me a Bible before, and the idea felt both insulting and strangely disarming.
Before I could stop him, he stretched out his hand, holding the book toward me with a sincerity I had never seen in anyone facing arrest.
I hesitated, then reached out to grab it, intending to snatch it away with annoyance.
But the moment my hand touched the cover, everything changed.
A sudden heat surged through my palm, rushing up my arm so quickly that I gasped aloud.
It wasn’t the kind of heat that burned.
It felt alive, intense, almost like an electric current flowing under my skin.
I tried to let go of the book, but my fingers wouldn’t open.
The heat spread across my chest, and for a terrifying moment, I felt as though something invisible was pressing against my heart.
The officers noticed my reaction and stepped closer, unsure what was happening.
The room fell silent.
Even the workers stopped praying and stared at me with wide eyes as though they sensed something supernatural occurring.
My breath grew shallow and I felt the ground shift beneath me.
Then, in the midst of the silence, a voice echoed inside my mind.
Not from the room, not from any person present, but from somewhere deep within or far beyond anything I had ever known.
The voice said, “Why are you persecuting me?” It was calm yet powerful, gentle, yet unmistakably authoritative.
The words cut through my thoughts like lightning splitting the sky.
I looked around in confusion, trying to find the source, but no one in the room had spoken.
The officers stared at me blankly, unaware of what I had heard.
The voice repeated the question, each word resonating inside my chest with a weight that made my knees weaken.
My heart pounded so loudly that I could barely hear anything else.
I tried to stay upright, but my vision blurred and the heat in my chest intensified until I couldn’t stand anymore.
My legs gave way and I collapsed onto the floor before I could stop myself.
Gasps filled the room and officers rushed toward me, shouting my name.
But their voices sounded distant, like echoes coming from another world.
As I lay on the floor, the room spinning around me.
I felt the heat slowly fade from my chest.
My body trembled uncontrollably and for several seconds, I couldn’t breathe properly.
The Filipino man knelt nearby, his hands shaking, tears forming in his eyes as he whispered a prayer under his breath.
I couldn’t understand every word, but I recognized the name Jesus repeated several times.
The officers lifted me carefully, trying to steady me, but I felt as weak as a child, unable to fully regain control of my limbs.
They helped me out of the room and escorted me back to the stairwell, the cool air outside the building brushed against my face, but it did little to calm the fear rising inside me.
My body felt drained, my mind overwhelmed, and the voice, those words kept repeating themselves in my thoughts.
Why are you persecuting me? I could not escape them no matter how hard I tried.
During the ride back to the palace, I sat in silence, staring at my trembling hands.
I tried to convince myself that what happened had a logical explanation, but deep inside I knew it had not been physical or psychological.
It had been spiritual.
The hate I felt, the inability to release the Bible, the voice that spoke directly into my mind, none of it could be explained by stress or exhaustion.
I felt as though something had reached deep inside me and touched a part of my soul I didn’t even know existed.
The officers kept glancing at me nervously, unsure whether I was ill or furious, but I couldn’t speak.
I felt numb.
When we reached the palace gates, I stepped out of the vehicle slowly, as though my legs no longer belong to me and walked silently into my private quarters without looking back.
Inside my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
The silence felt heavy, almost suffocating.
I replayed the moment in the underground room again and again.
The man’s expression, the Bible in his hand, the heat rushing through my arm, the voice speaking with undeniable authority.
My mind struggled to understand what had happened, but every explanation I tried to create crumbled immediately.
I moved toward the sink and splashed water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes looked different, shaken, disturbed, almost haunted.
I whispered to myself, “What is happening to me?” But no answer came.
My heart continued pounding erratically.
And I felt a shiver run through my entire body as though I had stepped into a place from which I could not return.
I tried to pray hoping that the familiar verses of the Quran would calm me.
But the moment I began reciting, the voice echoed once more in my thoughts.
Why are you persecuting me? The words brought tears to my eyes involuntarily.
I clenched my fists, refusing to let the emotion overcome me, but the weight of the experience was too heavy to carry.
My breath hitched and for the first time in many years I felt genuinely afraid.
Not of failure, not of dishonor, but of something spiritual, something unknown, something far greater than me.
I sank to the edge of my bed, buried my face in my hands, and struggled to steady my breathing.
The prince who once felt invincible.
The man who believed he was fulfilling Allah’s command now sat trembling under the weight of a voice he could not silence.
That night’s sleep avoided me completely.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the dream to return, but it didn’t.
Instead, the silence felt heavier than ever, as though the room itself was holding its breath.
I tried to convince myself that everything would go back to normal if I simply stayed strong and ignored the voice.
But a part of me knew that nothing about my life would be the same again.
Something had awakened.
Something I didn’t yet understand, and no amount of denial would make it disappear.
As dawn approached and the first light began to seep into the room, I sat up slowly, exhausted, frightened, and unsure of what awaited me.
The only thing I knew for certain was that the events of the underground raid had changed something inside me forever, and I could no longer pretend otherwise.
When dawn broke that morning, I felt as though I had not slept for years.
My entire body from exhaustion, but my mind refused to slow down.
The voice from the underground room continued, echoing in my thoughts, refusing to fade, no matter how many times I tried to push it away.
I went through the motions of the day, sitting through briefings and listening to reports, but everything sounded distant, like noises coming from behind a thick wall.
Around noon, an urgent call came from an officer in Jedha.
He insisted, “I hear the news personally.
” A Filipino woman arrested during a previous raid.
The same woman whose Bible refused to burn had been admitted to the prison clinic with severe abdominal pain.
But within hours, something happened that left every doctor speechless.
According to the officer, she was completely healed without medical treatment, and the staff couldn’t explain how it occurred.
His voice trembled slightly as he spoke and a strange chill ran through me.
I ordered my jet prepared immediately and flew to Jedha that same evening.
During the flight, I sat alone, staring at the small table before me, as though the answers to my turmoil might be carved into its surface.
The officers accompanying me whispered among themselves, likely wondering why a prince would travel across the country for a single prisoner.
But I didn’t care what they thought.
Something inside me demanded that I see this woman myself.
When we landed, a convoy drove us straight to the women’s detention facility.
The warden greeted me nervously, clearly unsure how to address the unusual situation.
He led me through several corridors until we reached a small observation room where the woman was seated on a bench speaking quietly with a nurse.
She looked completely healthy, even peaceful.
I remembered her trembling in the courtyard at the labor camp, begging for mercy, and the contrast unsettled me even more.
The doctors assembled in the room explained their confusion.
She had been admitted with symptoms of a severe intestinal obstruction, a condition that often required emergency surgery.
Yet when they prepared for treatment, her pain stopped abruptly.
They conducted scans and tests, expecting to find abnormalities, but everything appeared normal.
One doctor said he had never witnessed anything like it in his 20 years of medical practice.
As they spoke, the woman lifted her head and looked straight at me.
Her eyes held no fear, no bitterness.
Instead, they were filled with a calmness I could not understand.
When I stepped closer, she whispered, “I prayed for you, sir.
” Her voice was soft, but her words pierced straight into my chest.
I felt a heaviness settle over me, the same heaviness I had felt when the man in white appeared in my dreams.
I tried to maintain my composure, but inside something began to crumble.
I left the facility quickly, overwhelmed and disturbed.
The drive back to my hotel felt unreal.
Straight lights blurred past the windows, but I barely noticed them.
I kept replaying the woman’s words.
I prayed for you as though they carried a message hidden beneath them.
For the first time, I felt an undeniable sense of guilt rising inside me.
Every raid, every confiscated Bible, every arrested worker weighed on me like stones stacked on my chest.
I had believed I was defending Islam, but now confronted with miracles and dreams and supernatural encounters.
Everything I once knew felt uncertain.
That night, inside my hotel suite, I found myself unable to sit still.
I paced from one end of the room to the other, my heart beating faster with every memory that surfaced, the wind extinguishing the matches, the Bible falling open to that highlighted verse, the voice asking why I persecuted him.
And now a miraculous healing.
Around midnight, when the city outside fell quiet, I opened the drawer where officers had placed the confiscated items earlier that day.
Inside it lay a small New Testament taken from one of the workers.
My hand trembled as I picked it up.
I knew I shouldn’t read it.
I knew the clerics would condemn me if they saw me holding it.
Yet something deep inside me urged me to open it.
I sat on the edge of my bed, breathing heavily, and slowly flipped open the book.
My eyes fell on a passage from the Gospel of Matthew.
And as I began to read, the words felt strangely alive.
They did not feel like ordinary text.
Each sentence seemed to speak directly to the turmoil in my heart.
I read about forgiveness, mercy, and the love that pursued even the lost and stubborn.
With each line, I felt the tension in my chest tighten as though the book was opening a part of me I had kept locked my entire life.
I read for hours, forgetting the time completely.
Every page drew me in deeper.
And with each verse, I felt a growing conviction inside me.
It wasn’t condemnation.
It was something far gentler yet incredibly powerful.
It felt like someone was reaching into the deepest parts of my soul, exposing my fears, my pride, my anger, and offering healing instead of judgment.
At one point, I had to put the book down because the emotion overwhelmed me.
Tears blurred my vision, and I wiped them away quickly, ashamed of my vulnerability.
I’d always believed tears were a sign of weakness, especially for a prince raised to show strength at all times.
But now, alone with this book, I couldn’t hide the truth.
Something inside me was breaking.
Something that needed to break.
When I returned to Riyad the next morning, I carried the New Testament with me, hidden inside my jacket.
I knew the risk of being discovered, but I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.
That night, after a long day of meetings, I entered my private prayer room, a small chamber built for meditation and Quran recitation.
The room was quiet with soft carpet under my feet and warm lights on the walls.
Normally the space brought me peace, but that night the air felt heavy with tension.
I locked the door gently, then knelt on the floor, holding the New Testament in one hand and resting my other hand over my chest.
I wanted to pray, but I didn’t know how.
Every Quranic verse I tried to recite felt distant, and my own words felt weak.
I finally whispered into the silence, “If this is real, show me, please.
” As soon as the words left my mouth, a sudden stillness fell over the room.
The air grew warm, not the uncomfortable heat of the desert, but a soft warmth that wrapped around me like a gentle embrace.
I lifted my head slowly, unsure whether something was happening or whether my mind was playing tricks on me.
But then the warmth intensified, filling the room with a brightness that seemed to come from nowhere.
I blinked rapidly as the light grew stronger, illuminating every corner.
It wasn’t the harsh glare of lamps or sunlight.
It was a soft, pure white light that felt alive.
I felt my breath catch as the light settled around me and a deep peace washed over my body.
So overwhelming that tears stream down my face without warning.
I had never felt anything like it.
Not in prayer, not in meditation, not in any moment of my life.
Suddenly, I sensed a presence near me, though I saw no figure with my eyes.
The presence felt familiar.
The same presence I had felt in the dreams.
The same presence I had felt in the the underground room.
When the voice spoke to me, my heart pounded as I lowered my head, unable to lift my gaze into the light.
Then the voice came again, closer this time, filled with unmistakable authority, yet overflowing with tenderness.
I am the one you saw in the desert.
Follow me.
The words struck me with the force of truth.
I felt my entire body tremble under the weight of them.
I wanted to respond, but emotion choked my voice.
Instead, I found myself leaning forward until my forehead touched the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably.
The light remained around me, not accusing me, not pushing me away, but embracing me with a love I could not understand.
In that moment, every wall I had ever built inside myself.
Pride, fear, anger, certainty collapsed.
I saw glimpses of my life as though the light itself was revealing them to me.
The raids, the workers trembling in fear.
The Bible seized the harsh words I had spoken in the name of religion.
Instead of condemnation, I felt a deep sorrow for the pain I had caused.
The weight of guilt pressed against me, but the presence in the room lifted it gently, offering forgiveness that felt pure and undeserved.
I cried harder than I had ever cried in my life.
The tears soaked into the carpet and my body shook with the release of years of hardness and arrogance.
When I finally lifted my head, the light had softened, but the presence remained steady and comforting.
I whispered into the quiet air, my voice trembling, “Jesus, I believe.
” The moment the words left my mouth, the warmth inside the room deepened, almost as if acknowledging my surrender.
I felt peace fill my entire being, replacing the turmoil that had tormented me for weeks.
The heaviness lifted from my chest and a gentle calm settled over my spirit.
I had no idea what my future would look like or what consequences awaited me for this decision.
But for the first time in my life, I felt free.
I felt alive.
I felt seen and loved in a way I had never experienced.
When the light finally faded and the room returned to its normal dim glow, I remained kneeling on the floor, tears drying on my face, overwhelmed by the realization that my entire life had changed in a single moment, I stayed in the prayer room long after the encounter ended, unable to move, unable to stop replaying the voice in my mind.
The sunrise crept slowly through the window, casting soft shadows on the floor, but I was too consumed by all to notice.
I pressed my hand over my heart.
still feeling a faint warmth lingering from the presence that had filled the room.
The New Testament lay across my lap, its pages slightly bent, and I held it gently, almost reverently.
Everything I once believed, everything I once stood for had been transformed.
I knew there would be challenges ahead, consequences I could not avoid.
But none of that mattered.
The truth had revealed itself to me and I could no longer deny it.
With a trembling whisper, I repeated the words again.
Jesus, I believe, sealing the moment forever in my heart.
In the days that followed my surrender in the prayer room, I moved through the palace corridors with the sense of calm I had never known before.
The turmoil that once consumed me had lifted, replaced by a quiet peace that settled deep inside my chest.
Yet with that peace came a heavy awareness.
I was now a follower of Jesus living inside one of the most strictly Islamic royal families in the world.
The realization frightened me, not because I regretted my decision, but because I knew how dangerous it would be if anyone discovered the truth.
The religious police, the clerics, even members of my own family would see my conversion as betrayal of both Allah and the kingdom.
Apostasy was not just a religious offense.
It was a crime that carried severe consequences.
I understood the risks, but the peace I felt after encountering Jesus was stronger than any fear that tried to rise inside me.
I reminded myself daily that truth was worth any cost.
The first challenge came the morning after my encounter.
During a meeting with officers responsible for the raids, they presented another list of planned operations targeting migrant neighborhoods in Riyad and Jedha.
A month earlier, I would have approved the list without hesitation, urging them to push harder.
But now, the idea of causing more fear, tearing apart gatherings, or confiscating their scriptures filled me with a sense of grief.
I felt irresponsible for the suffering I had caused.
I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice steady and told them the program needed to be reassessed.
They exchanged confused glances, clearly uncertain about my sudden shift.
I explained that the operations were becoming excessive and that our focus should shift toward national security rather than religious enforcement.
They seemed relieved rather than suspicious, believing I was simply adjusting strategy.
I did not reveal that the real reason was compassion growing inside me.
Compassion I could no longer suppress.
Later that week, I visited the central detention facility in Riyad where many workers arrested during the raids were still being held.
I walked through the narrow corridors, past cells, crowded with migrants who looked exhausted and hopeless.
The sight of them tightened my chest.
Just weeks earlier, I had seen these men and women as violators of the faith.
Now I saw them differently.
Human beings longing for hope, clinging to their beliefs in a country where expressing them could cost everything.
I requested private access to the files of those arrested for possession of Christian materials.
The officers looked puzzled, but they complied.
When I studied the records that evening, I made a list of individuals who had been detained for months without trial.
Some were career givers, cleaners, construction workers, ordinary people who posed no threat to the kingdom.
That same night, I issued quiet orders, transferring several of them to less restricted facilities, reducing their sentences or releasing them outright.
I did it without explanation to any official.
The fear inside me was real, but doing nothing felt worse.
Each decision I made carried risk, but somehow the courage came easily.
Whenever doubt tried to rise inside me, I remembered the voice in the prayer room and the warmth that filled my chest.
I reminded myself that following Jesus required action, not just belief.
In the weeks that followed, I intervened in subtle ways.
When officers planned a surprise raid on a residential block known for hosting Christian gatherings, I instructed them to redirect their operation.
claiming there was a more urgent security concern elsewhere.
When a supervisor from Jedha requested approval to prosecute a group arrested during the underground raid, I quietly closed the case, citing insufficient evidence.
These decisions confused the officers, but none questioned me directly.
Being a prince meant my authority was seldom challenged, and for the first time, I used that authority to protect rather than to punish.
My transformation, however, could not remain entirely hidden.
A few officers began noticing my behavior.
I no longer spoke with harsh harshness during briefings, and my anger, once quick and explosive, had softened into a quieter, more reflective tone.
Some clerics commented that I appeared disturbed or withdrawn, but I reassured them I was simply burdened by the weight of leadership.
The truth was that I was learning to live in two worlds at once.
One where I was a respected Muslim prince expected to defend Islamic law and another where I secretly walked with Jesus trying to understand his teachings and follow his voice.
I spent my nights studying the New Testament in the privacy of my room, reading about love, forgiveness, and humility.
Every time I read the words of Jesus, I felt the same warmth I had felt in the prayer room.
I read slowly, savoring each sentence, letting it reshape my thoughts and unwind years of rigid conviction.
One passage that struck me deeply was Matthew the 5 where Jesus spoke about loving enemies and praying for those who persecute you.
I thought about the workers I had arrested, the fear I had caused them and the prayers they offered for me even while facing punishment.
Their response made sense to me now.
I understood why they prayed instead of resisted.
The Jesus I encountered was the same Jesus who had taught them to love even in suffering.
The weight of my past actions grew heavier.
But instead of crushing me, it pushed me further toward compassion.
I made it my quiet mission to protect as many believers as I could without drawing attention.
I believed it was the least I could do after everything I had done to harm them.
Word began to spread quietly among migrant communities that something unusual was happening in the kingdom.
Workers who had been detained were suddenly released.
Raids that had once instilled fear were slowing down.
Some underground groups received anonymous warnings about inspections before they happened, giving them time to hide their Bibles and gathering materials.
They didn’t know the warnings came from me, but they felt protected by an unseen hand.
My heart swelled each time I heard of their relief.
One afternoon while reviewing intelligence reports, I found a note written in Tagalog at the bottom of a document.
It read, “God has touched someone in high places.
” I felt tears sting my eyes as I read it.
They had no idea how true that statement was.
As my confidence grew, I began sharing my testimony discreetly, but only with individuals I trusted completely.
The first person I confided in was a Kenyan worker who had been assigned to clean part of the palace courtyard.
I had seen him reading a small Bible during his break hidden behind a tree.
Normally such an act would have resulted in immediate punishment, but instead I approached him gently and asked about his faith.
He looked terrified at first, but when I told him about my dream, the underground raid, and the voice I heard, his eyes filled with tears.
He fell to his knees and began thanking God aloud, overwhelmed by the miracle of my conversion.
I lifted him quickly, urging him to stay quiet, but inside my heart felt full.
Sharing my story gave me a sense of purpose I had never known.
It felt like healing.
The more I shared in secret, the more I heard of others coming to Christ because of what happened to me.
A Filipino nurse told me she had prayed for years that someone and authority would encounter Jesus.
A group of Ethiopian workers whispered that they had seen visions confirming God was moving in the kingdom.
Within months, I learned that over 200 migrant workers had given their lives to Christ after hearing parts of my story through whispered conversations over testimonies or quiet prayers shared between friends.
It humbled me deeply.
The man who once tried to erase every Bible in Saudi Arabia had unknowingly become a reason for many to embrace Jesus.
The irony was not lost on me.
It felt like a divine reversal, something far bigger than anything I could have orchestrated.
One evening, while sitting alone in my room, I opened the same New Testament I had read on the night of my surrender.
My eyes fell once again on the verse from Genesis 50:20.
The verse that had shaken me during the Bible burning attempt.
You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.
I read it slowly, letting each word sink into my heart.
I realized then that the verse was not just for the workers I had persecuted.
It was for me as well.
God had taken my anger, my ignorance, my pride, and turned them into something that brought life, not destruction.
He had taken my mission against the Bible and used it to lead me directly to Jesus.
The realization brought tears to my eyes.
I lifted my head and whispered into the quiet room, “Thank you for not giving up on me.
” As months passed, I continued living in secrecy, walking carefully between the expectations of the royal family and the truth of the faith growing inside me.
I knew there would come a time when I could no longer hide.
But for now, Jesus gave me wisdom and courage to navigate each day.
Some nights I still dreamed of the man in white, but now his presence brought comfort instead of fear.
He no longer asked why I persecuted him.
Instead, he simply walked beside me in silence, reminding me I was not alone.
Now, as I reflect on everything, my upbringing, my zeal, my arrogance, the raids, the supernatural encounters, I see clearly that Jesus had been pursuing me long before I recognized his voice.
I see how every moment, even my mistakes led me to the truth.
I used to believe I was defending Islam.
But now, I know I was running from the very one who loved me most.
And now with full conviction in my heart, I say the words that changed everything.
I am his and he is mine.
