Future Imam Converts to Christianity! -"I Challenged the Bible!"

 Future Imam Converts to Christianity! -"I Challenged the Bible!" • Powerful Christian Testimony

Hello, Mr. NDE ( near death experience ) narrator. I came across your channel when a friend of mine in Jordan shared one of the conversion   stories from your channel with me. My name is Muhammad. I am 33 years old, born and raised in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. My story isn't easy to share, but I believe someone out there needs to hear it. From the moment I could speak, my life was shaped by the heavy expectations of religion. I grew up in a conservative Muslim family. My father was a respected Quranic teacher in the local mosque. From a very young age, it was understood that I would follow in his footsteps. Not just as an imam, but someone destined to rise through the ranks. Perhaps one day to become the Grand Muy of Saudi Arabia. My family told me this was a great honor to be 

chosen by Allah to serve Islam with my life. I was called the light of the family because of how early I could 

recite the Quran. On the outside, my future looked holy and perfect. By the 

age of six, I was already enrolled in a Quran memorization school in the heart of Riyad. My mornings began before sunrise with far prayers followed by hours of HIPS'S lessons, memorizing suras line by line under the sharp eyes of our sheikh .By 10 years old, I had completed over half of the Qur'an. My teachers praised me and my family boasted about me to neighbors and relatives. My father especially would often sit in the front room of our house with guests and say, "My son is the future leader of Islam in this nation." I heard those words so many times that they became part of how I saw myself. My cousins envied me, but deep down I never really felt proud. Instead, I felt the weight. Every verse memorized was not just knowledge, it was   pressure. Every mistake in that brought scolding and sometimes even punishment both at school and at home. behind the closed doors of our family house. My life was far from peaceful. My father, though respected in the mosque, was harsh and unloving at home. If I forgot a verse, he would strike me with his belt or slap me across the face. He said he was disciplining me for Allah's sake. But I never felt Allah's love in those moments, only fear. My stepmother, who entered our lives after my mother passed away when I was 8, treated me like an unwanted guest. She never raised her hand at me, but her words cut deeper than any slap. You think you're special? You're nothing without your father's Qur'an. Those were the kinds of things I heard daily. There was no warmth, no comfort. Religion became a cage and home was its prison. I cried myself to sleep most nights, not because I feared Allah, but because l feared the people who claimed to speak for him. The more l succeeded in memorization and Islamic studies, the more I was pushed into religious responsibilities. At 13, I was leading prayers and small gatherings. At 15, I was giving short talks after Jummah prayer, or Friday prayers. At 16, I was enrolled in an advanced Islamic boarding school in Cassm to prepare for Al-Azhar University. Al-Azhar University - Gaza (AUG; Arabic: جامعة الأزهر بغزة) is a Palestinian, public, non-profit, and independent higher education institution.

Everyone said I was on the path to greatness, but inside I was breaking. I began to feel trapped in an identity I didn't choose. My mind was full of questions I couldn't ask out loud. Why does Allah feel so distant? Why do those who preach his mercy show so little of it at home? Why does worship feel like a burden and not a joy? I kept these thoughts hidden because doubting Islam even a little could bring serious consequences. I had seen classmates disappear from school after speaking too freely. As I grew older, the conflict between my public image and my private pain became unbearable. I began to resent everything. My father, my stepmother, the mosque, the Qur'an, even Allah. But I never said it out loud. Instead, my anger came out in small ways. I started skipping prayer at times. I began listening to music in secret, hiding earphones under my throat,   poems in my notebook, expressing feelings of despair, rage, and confusion. I was angry that no one ever asked how I was feeling. No one noticed the bruises. No one cared that I wasn't okay. I wasn't allowed to be weak or vulnerable. the future imam, a title that erased my humanity. And slowly, I began to question whether l even believed in the life that had been mapped out for me since childhood. But those questions only grew louder as the pain deepened. By the time l was 17, I had learned to fake smiles and rehearse Islamic speeches even when my heart was dark inside. I led tarowi prayers during Ramadan with perfect recitation while secretly hating the religion l represented. I envied people who were free, people who didn't live under the weight of forced righteousness. One day, after an argument with my father over a minor mistake in my pronunciation, I threw my Qur'an across the room. He beat me so badly that I couldn't walk properly for 3 days. That night, I made a decision. If I couldn't live with   freedom under Islam, then I would find reedom outside it. My faith had turned into fear. My heart no longer responded to the words of the Qur'an. I began rebelling, not loudly at first, but quietly, dangerously. My anger was no longer just emotional. It was becoming physical. I started spending more time outside the house, wandering the streets of Riyadh with boys l once called disbelievers. They welcomed me with jokes, food, and stories, not lectures. They didn't care how much Qur'an I had memorized or how well I spoke Arabic. With them, I could be myself. At least that's what I thought. I started smoking and experimenting with pills. I began lying to my father, forging my prayer attendance at the masid, and staying out all night. What started as a silent   rebellion quickly became a lifestyle. I stopped fearing Allah and started fearing no one. The anger that had built up from years of abuse and silence was now exploding in every direction. I got into fights, broke things in my house, cursed at my stepmother, and challenged anyone who told me what to do. My path toward becoming the Grand Muy was crumbling, and I didn't care anymore. My family tried to hide what was happening. 

My father blamed the West, the internet, the satellite TV. He never once looked in the mirror. He never admitted that the same hands that held the Qur'an were the ones that scarred his son. I remember the day I first struck someone on the street. It wasn't even a big reason. He stepped on my shoe and refused to apologize. Something in me snapped. I beat him until he bled. I wasn't proud. I wasn't even thinking. I was drowning in rage. That moment would later lead to the arrest that changed everything. But before the prison bars, the real prison was inside my own heart. I was no longer Muhammad the 'Hafiz', the scholar, the future Imam. In Islam Hafiz e quran meaning is a person who memorizes the Qur'an is called ' Hafiz ', the keeper and the guardian. I was just another angry boy in the streets of Riyadh, lost between religion and rage, pretending not to care if I lived or died. When I look back now, I realize how deep the wounds had become. The  beatings, the silence, the pressure, they all built up in layers over the years. until I couldn't recognize myself anymore. My body walked like a scholar. My voice recited like an imam. But inside l was a volcano ready to explode. I stopped fearing what my father would say and started ignoring what my teachers expected. I was tired of pretending to be the perfect boy. Even though I still led prayers from time to time and appeared in religious gatherings, I was slowly becoming someone else. I began seeing violence not just as a reaction but as a form of release. If someone provoked me, I would hit. If someone disrespected me, I would shout. I had stored so much pain for so many years that now I welcomed any excuse to let it out, even in dangerous ways. My circle of friends changed completely during that time. I was no longer hanging around students of knowledge or fellow Qur'an memorizers. I found a new group, boys who had also been pushed out of their homes, rejected by their families, or wounded by religion. We didn't talk about pain. We acted on it. We spent our nights roaming the streets of Riyadh, smoking hashish, blasting   music in alleyways, and chasing thrills that numbed our emotions. Some were older than me, already experienced with the police. They taught me how to steal phones, cheat shopkeepers, and intimidate weaker boys. I listened more to them than to any imam in the masjid, a mosque. Even though I still kept up the appearance of being religious at times, I was living a double life. My father still believed I would return to the path. What he didn't know was that I had already chosen a different one, and it was spiraling fast. My stepmother's hateful words never left me, even when I was out of the house. "You're nothing without your father's Qur'an," she once said. I wanted to prove to her and to everyone that I didn't need their approval or their religion to survive. One evening, while walking through a narrow street in the Dheera district, I needed to make a call. My phone had died, and I spotted a public telephone booth being used by another young man. I asked him to hurry up, but he ignored me. His arrogance reminded me of every   person who ever looked down on me. He muttered something under his breath, and I lost control. I grabbed him, slammed him into the wall, and hit him repeatedly. He fell to the ground, bleeding and unable to speak. I remember people screaming. I remember sirens. I remember cuffs. But what I remember most was the sudden silence in my heart, like something had finally snapped beyond repair. The police didn't care that I had once been praised in the mosque. They didn't care about my memorization or my religious background. All they saw was a violent teenager with a criminal charge. The boy I had assaulted ended up in the hospital with serious injuries. 

My father tried to talk to the authorities, but his influence didn't work this time. There were too many witnesses and the case became serious. I was charged with aggravated assault and detained while awaiting trial. That was the first time I saw a prison cell from the inside. It wasn't what expected. The walls were cracked. The air smelled like sweat and iron. The noise never stopped. Footsteps shouting, metal doors   slamming shut. I sat in the corner with my head down, thinking about what I had become. I wasn't proud. I wasn't even angry anymore. I was just empty. It felt like the end of everything . At first, I tried to hold on to the image of who l used to be. I still prayed five times a day. I still quoted ayat (verses) from memory. I still told myself that this was just a phase that Allah was testing me. I convinced myself that I could return to the path, maybe even finish my studies and continue the journey to becoming a scholar. Other inmates started calling me sheikh because of how much Qur'an I had memorized. They would ask me to lead them in prayer and I agreed. Deep down, I wasn't sure l believed anymore, but I didn't want to lose that last connection to who l used to be. It gave me a role, a reason to hold my head up. Even in a place like prison, I wanted to be respected. I wanted to prove that I hadn't completely fallen, at least not yet. But the more l stayed in that cell, the more my thoughts started to change. I watched how easily prisoners quoted hadith while planning evil. I saw how the same men who raised their hands in due could stab each other over bread. I heard conversations that made my stomach turn about punishments, dominance, and so-called justice. Islam was everywhere in the prison, but peace was nowhere. The violence wasn't just in fists. It was in words, and how people looked at each other, in how religion was used like a sword. I began asking myself questions I had never dared to ask before. If Islam is the true way, why does it look so hollow in practice? If Allah is merciful, why is fear the only language we're taught to speak? I kept these questions inside, of course. 

Outwardly, I still looked like the same devout prisoner. But inside, I was walking a line between doubt and desperation. My father visited once while I was in prison. He didn't come with love or concern. He came with shame. He stood on the other side of the glass, eyes full of disappointment. You were supposed to lead this Uma, he said. You were supposed to be our pride. I looked at him but said nothing. He didn't ask how I was feeling. He didn't ask what led me to this place. All he cared about was how I dishonored him in Islam. He left with a promise, not a prayer. He said he would do everything in his power to make sure l served a full sentence and faced the consequences under Sharia law. I believed him. That night, I didn't sleep. I just stared at the ceiling wondering if Allah had given up on me too or if maybe just maybe he was never there in the way I thought. Despite all of this, I continued leading prayers in the prison. It was a strange contradiction. On one hand, I was questioning everything and on the other, I was still clinging to what little identity I had left. The guards treated me with some respect because of my Quranic knowledge . Some inmates would even cry after my recitations. Some during would tearing away. But | knew the truth about myself. I wasn't leading prayers out of conviction anymore. I was doing it out of fear, routine, and the desire to belong. I was playing a role I no longer believed in. Every time I bowed, I asked myself, "Who am I really praying to?" I didn't know the answer. I wasn't brave  enough to walk away from Islam yet, but I was no longer walking toward it either. I was standing still in a dark   room, pretending to see light, hoping no one would notice that my lamp had gone out. The longer I stayed behind bars, the more my internal world grew quiet. I stopped reacting to insults. I stopped trying to prove anything. I became an observer. I watched how people manipulated the Qur'an for power, how they used the name of Allah to justify anger, revenge, and hatred. I remembered my childhood, my father's beatings, the lectures, the fear. Everything made sense now. My anger was never just about one moment or one fight. It was years of forced faith, crushed emotions, and ignored pain. The robe of religion I had worn so proudly had become a straight jacket. I didn't hate Allah. I didn't even hate Islam. I just didn't see the truth in it anymore. I was starting to believe that maybe the truth was somewhere else, somewhere l hadn't dared to look. But before l could find it, I had to first survive the cell, the questions, and the silence that had   become my only companions. The silence inside prison had become normal for me. 

But inside my thoughts, a storm had begun. I was still leading prayers and quoting Quranic verses, but I no  longer felt anything when I recited them. I started asking questions in my own mind. Quiet, dangerous questions that I never dared to voice out loud. Who really is Allah? Is he as merciful as they claim? Why does everything about worship feel heavy like a burden? And if the Qur'an is truly the final message, why did I keep noticing things that didn't make sense? These questions weren't just passing thoughts. They lived with me. I would   wake up in the middle of the night thinking about them. I would stare at the Qur'an and feel nothing but   confusion. I didn't know if this was doubt or just tiredness. But one thing was clear. The faith l once lived for was starting to fade. It began with small verses. I had read the Qur'an many times growing up. But this time I wasn't reading as a student. I was reading as a prisoner. As someone who had time to think, I started noticing verses that contradicted others. Some parts spoke of peace, but others commanded violence against non-believers. Some verses told us to forgive, while others spoke of cutting off hands and stoning. I had memorized all of this before, but I 

never questioned it. Now, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I remembered one verse that said,"There is no compulsion 

in religion, and then another that called for the punishment of those who leave Islam." How could both be true? I asked myself again and again. I kept it all inside because I knew what would happen if I spoke. Doubting the Qur'an in Saudi prison could cost you your life. But deep down, the cracks in the minaret had begun to form. The more l noticed these contradictions, the more restless I became. My heart was torn between what I had always been told and what I was now seeing for myself. My mind started pushing  against everything I had believed since childhood. I couldn't sleep properly. Some nights I cried quietly, unsure whether it was guilt or   freedom trying to rise up in me. I still wore the image of a devout Muslim in front of others. But alone in my cell, I was in chaos. I started whispering thoughts to myself like, "What if everything I was taught isn't true?" But then l would feel a cold fear. What if these thoughts were from shaitan? What if Allah would punish me? That fear held me hostage, but it couldn't silence my doubts. The more I tried to stop questioning, the more questions came. It was like a flood breaking down the walls I had built since I Was a boy. I still had my Qur'an beside me, but I began to look at it differently. I read it not for guidance, but to understand what exactly I was being told to believe. I paid attention to how often fear was used. Fear of hell, fear of punishment, fear of being cursed. I asked myself, "Is this how a loving God speaks?" I began to feel like I was being controlled, not guided. My thoughts became heavier each day. I wanted to believe, but belief felt forced now. I thought about all the sermons I had given in the mosque as a teenager. Were those words truly from my heart, or were they just the echo of other men's voices? I was afraid to let go of Islam because it had been my entire identity. 

But I was also afraid to stay in it. I didn't want a religion that chained my soul. I wanted one that set it free. 

Then one day during a prison cleaning shift, I came across a small shelf of donated books. Most of them were Islamic texts, old and torn. But in between two Arabic grammar books, I saw something I had never seen before. It was a Bible, an English Arabic parallel version. My hands froze. In Saudi Arabia, this was not just rare, it was forbidden. I looked around quickly, expecting someone to yell or take it away. But no one noticed. I slid it under my robe and walked back to my cell as fast as I could. I didn't want to read it out of interest. I wanted to prove it wrong. In my mind, it was my duty to protect Islam by exposing the lies of Christianity. I told myself, "Let me see what nonsense they believe." I had no idea that this one decision would become the beginning of everything that came after. That night, I sat in the corner of my cell, opened the Bible, and started reading from the beginning. I didn't understand everything, and the language was different from what I was used to. But something felt different, less threatening, more human. I read about love, peace, mercy, and forgiveness. I read about Jesus healing the sick, forgiving sinners, and teaching people to love their enemies. I didn't agree with it, but I couldn't deny the beauty in the message. My goal was stilI to challenge it, to find contradictions and laugh at them. I marked verses I thought were weak, wrote down notes in the margins, and prepared to prove that this book was false. But as the hours passed,   something inside me started to change. It wasn't a loud change. It was like a whisper, a quiet voice telling me, "Keep reading." And so I did, not to follow it, but to defeat it. Every day I would return to that Bible in secret. I treated it like an enemy, but it felt more like a mirror. I saw my pain reflected in its pages. I read about broken men like David and Paul who were forgiven and restored. I read the words of Jesus where he said, "Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest." That verse stopped me. I read it again and again. For the first time in my life, I felt like someone understood my pain without using fear to control me. It wasn't a command. It was an invitation. That verse stayed with me for days. I tried to go back to the Qur'an to refresh my faith, but I couldn't focus. I kept hearing the words of Jesus in my head. I was no longer fighting the Bible. I was fighting myself, and I was starting to lose. I wanted to hate the Bible, but I couldn't. The more l read, the more I saw things that made sense. It didn't try to scare me into obedience. It showed me a God who wanted my heart, not just my rituals. I found myself crying while reading certain passages, not because of fear but because of relief. For years, I had been told that I was nothing without strict obedience. But here was a message that said I was loved even in my weakness. That kind of love was something I had never seen in all my years of Islamic study. I tried to tell myself it was emotional manipulation. But my heart knew better. I wasn't being fooled. I was being found. Still, I told no one. I couldn't. If any inmate or guard found the Bible, I could be punished. But I was willing to take that risk. I had to keep reading. A war had begun inside me. On one side was everything I had ever known. Islam, Allah, the Qur'an, my family's honor, my people's identity. On the other side was a piece l had never felt before. A voice that said, "You are not forgotten." It wasn't about choosing a religion anymore. It was about choosing truth. I wanted to be sure. I needed to know if Jesus was who he claimed to be. I still had doubts, but they were different from before. These doubts didn't lead me into confusion. They pushed me to seek. I began reading the Bible every night, comparing it with what I had memorized from the Qur'an. I asked questions silently, letting both books speak. It was like watching two worlds collide, one that controlled through fear and one that invited through love. And every day, the voice of love grew louder. The battle had only just begun. The more I read the Bible, the more l realized I couldn't ignore it any longer. One Friday evening, after I led the prison prayer and returned to my cell, I decidedI had to settle this war inside me once and for all. I sat with the Bible, made sure no one was watching, and told myself, "Read the whole thing cover to cover. If it's false, l'II know. If it's real, l'II find out." | spent that entire weekend reading it, Friday night to Sunday night, without stopping except to eat and pray in public. My hands trembled at times. My heart was heavy with fear, but also something new, curiosity. As I turned each page, I felt like l was walking into a world I had never seen before. Not a world of rules and threats, but of grace and truth. I wasn't just reading words. I was being spoken to. By the time l reached the gospels, something inside me began to soften. I read the words of Jesus. How he treated the outcasts, how he forgave sinners, how he welcomed the the lost. He didn't use fear to control people. He didn't shout at them. He loved them, healed them, and invited them to follow him. Not out of fear, but out of faith. I had never seen this kind of message before. It was so different from what I had known in Islam where obeying Allah was tied to threats of hellfire and   punishments. Jesus spoke of heaven as a gift, not a reward you earn by ticking boxes. He said,"In my father's house, there are many rooms. I go to prepare a place for you." That hit me deeply. No chic had ever told me that God wanted me near him like that. In those words, I felt warm, a message that didn't crush me, but lifted me. I began to compare what I was reading in the Bible with what l knew from the Qur'an. The differences were clearer than l expected. The Qur'an spoke of Jesus as a prophet only, nothing more. It denied the crucifixion, rejected the idea of his divinity, and avoided the message of unconditional love. But the Bible showed me something else. It showed me a Jesus who gave himself for the world, who died not because he was weak, but because he was strong enough to carry our sin. I remembered how the Qur'an often said Allah guides whom he wills but never gave assurance of salvation. In contrast, the Bible said, "Whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." One message made me feel like I was never good enough. The other told me I was already loved. I had spent years fearing Allah's anger. Now I was discovering the God who wanted to be my father. There was something about the Bible's message that felt clear and   pure. The teachings of Jesus were not complicated. He spoke of loving God and loving others. He taught forgiveness, mercy, and humility. He challenged the powerful but protected the weak. I didn't need a hundred scholars to explain his words. I didn't need to memorize long chains of hadith or understand classical Arabic to follow him. His message was simple but not shallow. It cut through all the noise l had known for years. I began to see that truth didn't have to be hidden behind rituals and laws. Truth could be understood by a child or a prisoner like me. And it didn't need to be defended with fists or threats. It stood strong on its own because it was based on love. I started asking myself, why would anyone need to hurt others to protect something that's already perfect? I kept reading in secret, guarding the Bible like it was treasure. I hid it under my mattress during inspections. At night, I would turn the pages quietly, my hands trembling, my heart open. I had been trained to challenge falsehood. And yet, the more l challenged the Bible, the more I found answers. I wasn't looking for comfort. I was looking for evidence.   And the evidence was not in just facts. It was in how the Bible made me feel. Calm, seen, human. There were no calls for blood, no curses against non-believers, no threats that overwhelmed me. I felt free to think, to ask, to grow. I didn't feel like a slave standing before a harsh master. I felt   like a son hearing the voice of a loving father. That changed everything. I was still afraid of what might happen if  others found out. But inside, I was no longer afraid of the truth. There was one night I remember clearly. I had just finished reading the book of John. Jesus said, "l am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." That verse stayed with me like a heartbeat. I wrote it down on a scrap of paper and hid it in my clothes. I read it over and over again. It wasn't just a sentence. It was an invitation. I realized I had spent my whole life climbing the ladder of religion only to find it leaning against the wrong wall. Islam had given me structure, rules, and discipline. But Jesus was offering something else. Relationship, peace, and rest. I no longer felt confused. I wasn't looking for a new religion. I was looking for truth. And this truth didn't demand my pain. It healed it. I started to believe quietly, secretly that maybe I had finally found what I had been missing all along. I didn't tell anyone. I couldn't. The prison walls had ears and blasphemy in Saudi Arabia came with serious consequences. But in my heart, I was slowly turning. I began to whisper the name of Jesus under my breath. I began to pray differently, not with memorized Arabic lines, but with honest words from my own soul. I asked Jesus to show me who he truly was. I asked him to guide me, not through fear, but through truth. I was still scared, but that fear was now mixed with hope. It felt like l had been walking in the dark all my life, and now a candle had been lit. I wasn't sure where it would lead, but I knew I had to follow it. Every time l read his words, I felt closer to peace. I felt like l didn't need to be perfect to be loved. I only needed to be honest. 

One morning, after reading through Revelation, I closed the Bible and just sat still. I looked around my small cell. The same cell that once felt like punishment now felt like the place where my life was beginning. I had read the entire Bible in one weekend, not to follow it, but to fight it. Instead, it had won me over. Not with force, not with arguments, but with love. I said nothing out loud, but in my heart, I knew something had changed forever. I didn't need any loud voice from the sky or a lightning bolt. The voice of Jesus had already spoken, and I had heard him. I still had questions, but I no longer had resistance. I no longer wanted to fight. I found what I called truth that   required no violence to defend. It was the kind of truth that didn't need weapons, just a heart willing to listen. 

After reading the Bible cover to cover, I could no longer deny what I felt in my heart. Jesus had touched something deep inside me that no imam, no prayer, no verse from the Qur'an ever had. I knew I couldn't stay silent forever. So, one early morning in 2019, while everyone else in the prison was still asleep, I knelt beside my bunk and whispered what felt like the most dangerous words I had ever spoken. Jesus, I believe in you. I accept you. You are my savior. There were no fireworks, no shaking walls, but there was peace. For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of Allah's punishment. I felt covered by a love that didn't demand perfection. I made a private declaration of faith in Jesus. That morning, I was still in prison, still in Saudi Arabia. But in that moment, I felt freer than I had ever felt before. I didn't tell anyone at first. In Saudi prison, converting to Christianity is not just shameful. It is illegal, dangerous, and possibly fatal. But I couldn't hide what was changing inside me. I started refusing to lead prayers for other inmates. When they asked why, I simply said I wasn't feeling well. l avoided Quranic discussions and stopped attending Friday sermons in the prison yard. A few inmates began to notice. One of them, who had often prayed beside me, confronted me. What's wrong with you, Muhammad? You used to lead us. Now you're silent. I just smiled and said, "I'm searching for something." But word began to spread. Whispers started circulating that I had left Islam. In a place like that, such rumors don't die, they grow. Within days, some prisoners began calling me a merrat, a traitor to Islam. I denied nothing. I stayed quiet. I held tightly to the faith that had brought peace to my heart. The backlash came quickly. One night while l was walking to the washroom, a group of men followed me. I didn't notice them until it was too late. I felt a sharp pain in my back, then another near my ribs. I fell to the ground and heard shouting curses. You insulted Allah. You mocked the prophet. You deserve death. Blood filled my mouth. My vision blurred. I thought I was going to die. But in that moment, I remembered Jesus. I couldn't speak, but I prayed inside. Jesus, don't let me go. If I die now, take me with you. The guards came just in time. They pulled the men off me and rushed me to the prison clinic. I had been stabbed twice, one wound just a few inches from my heart. The doctor said if it had gone a little deeper, I wouldn't have survived. I was weak, but I was alive, and I knew Jesus had saved me. The next few weeks were difficult. I was moved to a separate block for safety, but the tension didn't stop. Word had reached outside the prison. Someone had told the administration that I had converted to Christianity. That news somehow reached my father. He came to visit and I could see the fury in his eyes. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn'teven ask what  happened. He looked at me like I was dirt. You have disgraced our name, he said through the visiting window. You have spat on Allah and humiliated your family. I will make sure you never walk free again. My father wasn't bluffing. He had connections with judges, religious leaders, and local police. I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted the court to add new charges, especially slander against Islam and the prophet Muhammad. If they agreed, I could face lashes, more years in prison or even death. It was a dark time. Every knock on the prison door made my heart race. I had already survived a stabbing, but now I faced the power of the legal system,   Sharia law. In Saudi Arabia, slandering Islam or leaving it can bring severe   punishment. My father pushed hard. He sent letters, filed reports, and met with local scholars demanding that I be charged with apostasy and blasphemy. I was told I would face a special hearing. I had no lawyer, no support, and no way to defend myself. I fasted and prayed for 3 days, not out of ritual, but out of desperation. I asked Jesus to stand with me. I told him, "If this is where my life ends, I trust you. But if there is still something you want me to do, please protect me." I had seen what the system could do to people who even questioned Islam. My case was worse. I had left it completely. The day of the hearing arrived. I was taken to a small courtroom inside the prison facility. 

Three judges sat in front of me, all trained in Sharia. One of them had known my father personally. I was asked if the rumors were true. I didn't lie. I told them, "Yes, I have accepted the teachings of Jesus, but I have not insulted the prophet. I have not harmed anyone." The judges looked at each other. There was a long silence. Then they asked me questions about the Qur'an, the Bible, and my reasons. I spoke calmly, not to defend myself, but to speak truthfully. I told them that I had found peace in the words of Jesus, not hatred. They whispered among themselves and asked me to wait outside. I expected the worst, but when I was called back in, they simply said, "We find no evidence of blasphemy. No further charges will be added. Return to your cell." I couldn't believe what I had just heard. This was not normal in Saudi Arabia, especially for someone with my background. Such outcomes almost never happen. A convert from Islam, especially one whose father demanded punishment, would almost always be found guilty. But somehow the judges said no. Somehow they saw no threat in me. I was sent back to my cell. And as soon as the door closed behind me, I fell to my knees. I wept , not in fear, but in awe. Jesus had stood with me. I was sure of it. It wasn't luck or coincidence. It was divine mercy. I had been stabbed, rejected, threatened, and dragged before the court. And yet, I was still standing. I remembered the words from Psalms I had read days earlier. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. That day, I didn't just survive. I witnessed a miracle. From that moment, my faith grew stronger. I was still in prison, but I was no longer afraid. I no longer hid my Bible. I read it every day openly. I prayed to Jesus in whispers, sometimes even aloud. Some inmates stayed away from me. Others insulted me, but a few began asking questions. One of them came to me one night and said, "You were supposed to die. How are you still alive?" | smiled and said, "Because Jesus gave me life again." I didn't try to preach loudly or argue. I just lived in peace. My wounds healed, but the scar near my heart stayed. I didn't see it as a mark of pain. I saw it as proof that Christ was with me even in the darkest place. I began writing down my thoughts, my prayers, and my journey. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew this. I was no longer Muhammad the Imam. I am Muhammad, the follower of Jesus.

The day I completed my prison sentence felt strange. There were no celebrations, no hugs, no words of  welcome. A guard walked me out of the main gate and handed me a sealed envelope. Inside was an official order from the Saudi Ministry of Interior. I was to be released immediately, but I could never return to my home. I was banished, permanently exiled from Saudi Arabia. There was no trial, no explanation. The paper simply stated that I was considered a threat to national unity and religious hrmony. In the eyes of the government, I had already committed the worst crime, not murder, not theft, but apostasy. I stood there holding the paper with mixed feelings. I was free but not welcomed anywhere. I had no country, home, and no one waiting for me. But one thing gave me strength. I had Jesus. And I believed he would open a door for me, even in a strange land. A friend I had met in prison, a Syrian man who worked in logistics before his arrest, had connections in Egypt. He helped me arrange a quiet journey out of the  kingdom. With the help of a few sympathetic guards and the little money I had left from my father's earlier deposits, I boarded a small private vehicle that took me toward the Jordanian border. From there, I crossed into Egypt with a fake name and temporary documents. Everything felt unreal. The sun on my face, the traffic in Cairo, the noise of freedom. I was alive and out of Saudi soil, but I was also lost. I found a small church in a quiet district near Mi. A local pastor who had once served in refugee camps took me in. I told him everything. My past, my doubts, my declaration of faith, the stabbing, the court hearing, and now the exile. He listened with  tears in his eyes and said, "It's time, brother. Let Jesus make all things new." 

A week later, on a calm Sunday morning, I was baptized in a small bathtub inside the church building. The water was warm, but my tears were warmer. As I came out of the water, I felt clean, not just on my skin, but in my soul. The pastor looked at me and asked what name I wanted to take in Christ. Without thinking, I said, "Jonas." It was the name of a prophet who once ran from God, but was later used to reach others. That's how I saw myself. Not a perfect man, but a rescued one. From that day forward, I was no longer Muhammad, the prisoner, or the former Imam's son. I was Jonas, a new creation in Christ. I started writing that name in my journal, on the edge of my Bible, and eventually in every document I could change. My past had shaped me, but it no longer owned me. I belonged to Jesus now. My first few months in Egypt were quiet, but heavy. I stayed inside most days reading scripture, praying, and letting myself feel things I had buried for years. The trauma from childhood, the years of pressure to be an imam, the fear from prison, the stabbing, the exile. It all came crashing down in  waves. There were days I couldn't eat, nights I woke up screaming. Flashbacks haunted me, especially memories of my father's face filled with rage. I joined a support group led by Christians who had also suffered for their faith. Some were ex-Muslims like me. Others were  survivors of war or abuse. We didn't speak much at first. We just sat,  listened, and cried. Slowly, healing began. I learned how to name my pain instead of hide it. I wrote letters to my younger self, forgiving the boy who never felt safe.  Jesus wasn't just my savior. He was becoming my healer. Not everyone was happy about my new life. My cousins found out I had left Islam and been baptized. They sent me angry voice notes through secret numbers. One message from my uncle called me naggies, unclean. A distant relative threatened to report my location to Saudi authorities. I had no doubt that if my father knew where I was, he would try to finish what prison couldn't. It wasn't just rejection, it was betrayal. People who once called me Hafiz of the Qur'an now called me a disgrace. I was blocked, insulted, cursed, and disowned. But the pain I felt wasn't as sharp as before. Jesus had already prepared my heart. I expected hatred. l expected abandonment, but l also expected healing and he delivered it. I leaned into the love of my new church family. I met a Lebanese believer named Nadim who became like a brother to me. Together, we studied the Bible, prayed, and served in the community. One of the hardest things I had to face was my feelings toward my father. For most of my life, I had lived under his shadow, his rules, his expectations, his punishments. He had never once hugged me, never asked me how I felt. When I was arrested, he used his power to try and destroy me. When l was stabbed, he didn't care. And yet, every time I closed my eyes, I still saw his face. I couldn't escape the pain he caused, and I couldn't move forward while holding on to hatred. One night, after reading Jesus words in Matthew, "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you," I broke down. I cried for hours. Then l picked up a pen and wrote my father a letter. Not to send, but to release. I forgave him. Not   because he deserved it, but because I needed it. I couldn't carry that weight anymore. Forgiveness was the door that led me to peace. After letting go of my anger toward my father, I found it easier to forgive others, too. My   stepmother, my former teachers, even the men who tried to kill me. I didn't excuse what they did. I didn't forget. But I gave that pain to Jesus. I realized that healing isn't just about moving forward. It's about letting go of what holds you back. I started counseling others in my support group. Not as a professional, but as someone who understood what trauma feels like. I sat with ex-Muslims who were scared, confused, and angry. I shared my story and reminded them that Jesus doesn't just save us from hell. He walks with us through every valley. That became my mission to help others find the peace that had taken me so long to discover. I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was building a new life one prayer at a time. Living as a follower of Christ in Egypt wasn't always easy. I had to be careful with whom l spoke, where I went, and how openly I shared my faith. But our house church, sharing food with fellow believers.   Seeing someone smile after hearing the gospel for the first time. I started volunteering with a small ministry that helped new converts find housing and work. We didn't do it for fame or numbers. We did it because love demands action. I wasn't trying to be a preacher or a leader anymore. I just wanted to serve. Jesus had given me a second chance and I wanted to spend it helping others. I began studying the Bible seriously, attending disciplehip classes, and dreaming about what else God might use me for. My life had no   clear road map. But for the first time ever, I was okay with that. My journey didn't end in Egypt. It only began there. As I healed and grew stronger in my faith, I started feeling a pull deep inside my heart, like Jesus was gently telling me, "It's time to go." I didn't know where or how, but I knew I couldn't stay still. I was no longer just a survivor. I was now a messenger. I began traveling quietly, sometimes by bus, sometimes by shared taxi across the region. Jordan was my first stop. Then came Lebanon, Syria, and even Iraq. I never used my real name, never stayed too long in one place. But in each country, I found people hungry for truth. Muslims who had questions, atheists who felt lost, and even pagans practicing old traditions but yearning for peace. I never forced anyone. I simply shared what Jesus had done for me. Not loudly, not proudly, but honestly, carefully, and with love. That's how the vineyard of the master began to grow. In Aman, I met a man named Khaled who once studied Sharia law in Kuwait. He had been beaten by his father for asking questions about the Qur'an. When we sat in a cafe, he told me, "I want to believe in God, but not like this. Not through fear." I nodded, understanding completely. I didn't preach at him. I shared my story. I told him how l once feared Allah more than I loved him and how that fear nearly destroyed me. I told him how I met Jesus in a prison cell and how everything changed. His eyes filled with tears. We 

prayed together later that week in his home. In Beirut, I met a group of young adults who were disillusioned with 

religion altogether. They had seen war, corruption, and fake imams. When I 

opened the Bible with them and read about Jesus healing the broken, they listened silently. No shouting, no  debate, just listening. That was enough In Syria, I visited a small community near Hs where the scars of war still ran deep. There l found women and children who had survived religious violence, not from outside enemies, but from their own families. One young woman told me she was nearly burned alive for refusing to wear the nicap. Another boy, no older than 12, said his uncle forced him to  memorize the Qur'an using electric shocks. These were not isolated cases. They were everywhere. I sat with them, not as a teacher, but as a brother. I listened to their pain. I cried with them. I told them they were not alone. I shared the story of Jesus calming the storm, reminding them that even in chaos, there is hope. For many of them, it was the first time someone spoke about God without threats. I didn't have all the answers, but I had love. And love when shared gently begins to heal. In Iraq, I met a man who had once been part of an Islamic militia. He was tired, broken, full of guilt. He asked me,"Can God forgive a man like me?" I opened to Luke 23 and read the words of Jesus on the cross. "Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are  jdoing." The man dropped to his knees. He didn't need a long sermon. He needed mercy and Jesus gave it freely. I started realizing that many of the people I met weren't running from God. They were running from the version of God they had been taught. A version full of anger, shame, and punishment. I told them, "God is not hiding. He's waiting." And he doesn't demand that you fix yourself before coming to him. He says, "Come as you  are." That message touched hearts more than any argument. It wasn't about converting people. It was about offering truth and letting them decide. 

As I traveled, I became more careful, especially with governments watching for Christian activity. I changed my appearance, used local dialects, and avoided drawing attention. But pop in hiding, the gospel spread. I met believers who worshiped in basements, prayed in whispers, and memorized verses in secret. Their faith humbled me. One night in Damascus, I attended a secret house church. We sang quietly and shared  bread and candle light. A young man named Rammy read from the book of Acts and said, "What we suffer, we suffer with joy because he is worth it." I nodded, remembering the scars on my body, the betrayal by my father, the prison walls. Yes, he is worth it. I wasn't living for safety anymore. I was living for something eternal. The master had sent me to his vineyard. And even though it was hard ground, I had seen seeds take root and that gave me strength to keep going. One of the most important things I teach now is this. Faith must be based on truth, not tradition. I tell people, don't follow Islam just because your parents did. Don't ignore Christianity just because you were told it's haram. Ask questions. See truth. Challenge your beliefs with evidence. That's what I did. And Jesus didn't run away from my doubts. He met me in them. l encourage people to study both the Qur'an and the Bible to compare, to ask why. Truth can stand up to testing. l explained that real faith is not blind. It's built on something solid. I share how Islam gave me fear but Jesus gave me peace. How rituals never healed me but love did. I tell them don't settle for what your culture says. Go deeper. Search because the one who made you is not hiding. He is calling you even now. And in many hearts I see something awaken. Curiosity, hunger, and sometimes tears. I never thought I would become a counselor. But that's exactly what happened. In every country I visited, people started seeking me out. Not because I was famous, but because they heard that I listened. Former Muslims, victims of religious abuse, confused seekers, even ex-imams came to talk. I sat with them in parks, cafes, small rooms, and refugee tents. I heard stories darker than my own. Stories of forced marriages, secret beatings, fake conversions, and broken dreams. I didn't try to fix them. I simply walked with them toward the light. I reminded them they weren't crazy, they weren't weak, and they weren't alone. Many of them had never heard that before. Some asked for Bibles. Some asked for prayer. Some just needed a hug. I gave whatever I could. And every time I spoke the name of Jesus, I felt like I was planting one more seed in the master's vineyard. Quiet seeds, but seeds full of life. The more I traveled, the more I realized that my pain had a purpose. I used to hate my past, the mosque pressure, my father's abuse, the prison cell, the exile. But now I saw how God had used every part of it to prepare me. Without those wounds, I would never have understood the people I was now helping. Without those scars, I would never have known the power of healing. I began to thank Jesus, not only for saving me, but for reshaping me. He took a boy raised for the pulpit of Mecca and turned him into a servant in the streets of the Middle East. And I wouldn't change that for anything. I no longer lived for titles or acceptance. I lived to reflect the one who saved me. His message wasn't just for me. It was for every man, woman, and child who thought they were too far gone. He wanted them, too. If I could say one thing to anyone reading or listening to my story, it would be this. You were made on purpose for a purpose. No matter your religion, your pain, or your past, Jesus sees you. He knows what you've been through. And he doesn't ask for perfection. He only asks for your heart. I found peace not by trying harder, but by surrendering. I found truth not in arguments, but in love. I found freedom not in escaping religion, but in meeting the one who fulfilled it. If you're Muslim, I understand your fear. If you're an atheist, I understand your doubts. If you've been hurt by religion, I understand your pain. But don't stop seeking. Because what I found in Jesus, you can find, too. He is not far. He is near. From Mecca to Cairo, from Baghdad to Damascus, I now walk not with anger but with joy. I'm just a  servant working in the master's vineyard. To my Muslim brothers and sisters, and to my Christian family across the world, this is not just a goodbye. It is a plea. A cry from a man who once thought he knew the truth. Who once prayed toward Mecca five times a day with all sincerity. Who once dreamed of becoming an imam, even a grand muy. I was one of you. I memorized the Qur'an. I led people in salah. I defended Islam with passion. But deep inside, I was empty. I didn't find peace in the rituals. I found fear. I didn't find joy in submission. I found silence. I didn't find God's face. I found his shadow. It wasn't until I met Jesus in the lowest place of my life that I finally understood what I had missed all along. God didn't want my perfection. He wanted my heart. To every Muslim reading or listening to me, I know your fear. I know what it feels like to question Islam and think you're committing the worst sin. I know the horror of considering that maybe you've been taught wrong. But l also know this. Truth does not fear questions. Jesus said in John 8:32, "Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." Islam taught me to fear Allah, but Jesus taught me to know God as father. I ask you, do you truly know him? Not through the words of others, not through tradition, but through his own word. Many Muslims say the Bible has been changed. But have you read it yourself? If it's so wrong, why are you afraid to open it? If you truly seek God, would he not show himself to you? Jesus promised I in Matthew 7:7, "Ask and it will be given to you. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be open to you." That's not the call of a religion. That's the voice of the God who is near. I beg you, don't die   without knowing who Jesus really is. Don't depend on what your imam told you. Don't depend on culture. Don't depend on fear. Stand before God and ask him directly. Read the angel. Read the words of Jesus for yourself. He said in John 14:6, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the father except through me." Islam calls him a prophet. The Bible calls him Lord. Only one can be right. Eternity is too long to be wrong. I know what it's like to be hated for leaving Islam. I know what it's like to be stabbed, exiled, and abandoned. But let me tell you this, it was worth it. AlI of it. Because now I know who l am. I know where l'm going. And I know that the one who died for me also rose again for me No imam died for you. No prophet gave his blood for you. But Jesus did. In Romans 5:8, he said, "God demonstrates his own love for us in this. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. And now to my Christian brothers and sisters, especially those in the West and peaceful nations, please hear me clearly. Don't take your salvation for granted. You live in countries where you can read the Bible freely, where you can gather and worship without fear, where you can pray in public and share your faith. Do you realize how precious that is? Do you understand what a gift that is? I met Christians in Egypt, Iraq, and Syria who risked their lives just to own a single Bible page. I met believers who have to whisper the name of Jesus in fear of being heard. Yet they are bold. They are strong. They love Jesus with all their hearts. But in the West, l've met Christians who leave their Bibles to gather dust, who skip church for  entertainment, who never share their faith because it's awkward. How can this be? You have the light, but you hide it under a basket. Jesus said in Luke 9:23,"Whoever wants to be my  disciple must. deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me." That is not a comfortable life. It is not a casual belief. It is a calling. While some of us are risking death just to follow Christ, others are treating him like an option among many. Wake up, church. Don't let comfort destroy your passion. Don't let freedom make you lazy. Don't let culture water down the truth. Jesus is coming soon. Will he find faith in your heart or just religion on your lips? I'm not perfect. I'm just a man once blind now seeing. I came from Mecca's shadow to the light of the cross. And now I live to tell anyone who will listen. Jesus is the truth. He is alive and he is waiting for you. Wherever you are, mosque, church, home, refugee camp, prison cell, he sees you and he is ready to welcome you not with anger but with open arms. Jesus said in   Matthew 11:28, "Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest".

In Arabic , قال يسوع في متى 11: 28، "تعالوا إليّ يا جميع المتعبين والثقيلي الأحمال، وأنا أريحكم". • qal yasue fi mataa 11: 28, "taealawa 'ily ya jamie almuteabin walthaqili al'ahmali, wa'ana 'urihukamu".