A Saudi Prince, a Forbidden Wedding, and the Night Jesus Set Him Free

My name is Abdullah.

I am twenty-four years old.

And on the night of March 15, 2018, everything I thought I knew about God, family, loyalty, and destiny collapsed—only to be rebuilt in a way I never imagined possible.

That was the night I was supposed to marry my own sister.

Instead, it was the night Jesus Christ saved my life.

I share this testimony from a secure location, far from my homeland, under a name that is no longer attached to titles, wealth, or royal privilege. I am no longer a prince of Saudi Arabia. I am something far greater.

I am free.

A Golden Prison

I was born in Riyadh in 1996, into a world that most people will never see except through documentaries or headlines. Our palace stretched endlessly—golden marble floors, towering columns, crystal chandeliers glowing day and night. Servants anticipated my needs before I knew I had them. Guards with automatic weapons patrolled the twenty-foot walls that separated us from the outside world.

To the world, my life looked like paradise.

But paradise can also be a prison.

My father, Prince Khaled, was a powerful man—respected by kings, feared by ministers, and obeyed without question inside our household. He was a strict follower of Wahhabi Islam, the most rigid and unforgiving interpretation of the faith. In our home, obedience was not a virtue—it was survival.

Every morning before dawn, his voice echoed through palace speakers, calling us to prayer. I learned to recite Quranic verses before I could properly read Arabic. By age seven, I performed all five daily prayers flawlessly. The rituals became automatic—stand, bow, kneel, prostrate, repeat.

Yet even as a child, something felt… empty.

The words were perfect. The movements precise.
But my heart felt untouched.

My Sister, My Shadow

My sister Amira was born two years after me. From our earliest memories, we were inseparable. While other children played freely in neighborhoods and schools, we lived behind walls—our world limited to echoing hallways and silent gardens.

We invented games in empty ballrooms. We raced through corridors that seemed to stretch forever. She was my laughter in a quiet palace, my comfort in a world ruled by rules and expectations.

But as we grew older, things changed.

Adults began watching us differently.

Servants whispered when they thought we could not hear. Clerics spoke of bloodline purity and family honor. Conversations stopped abruptly when we entered rooms. My mother—beautiful, silent, broken—cried behind closed doors and called them “tears of gratitude to Allah.”

I knew they were not.

By my teenage years, I understood that we were being kept separate from the rest of the royal family for a reason. Other princes attended universities. They brought friends, girlfriends, laughter. Amira and I arrived together and left together—always.

Like a matched set.

The Announcement

On January 15, 2017, my childhood ended.

My father summoned me to his private office after evening prayer. His office was a monument to power—Persian carpets worth millions, portraits of Saudi kings lining the walls, a massive desk where oil deals and political decisions were made.

He looked at me like a judge delivering a sentence.

“You are twenty-one,” he said. “It is time to fulfill your destiny.”

I expected an arranged marriage to a distant cousin or political ally. That was normal in our world.

Then he said her name.

“You will marry Amira.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny—but because my mind refused to accept the words.

“She is my sister,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied calmly.

He spoke of bloodline preservation. Of tradition. Of clerics who had approved “exceptional circumstances.” Of ancestors who had done the same.

My soul screamed.

I begged. I argued. I quoted Islamic law. I pleaded with my mother.

Nothing changed.

The wedding date was set: March 15, 2018.

Darkness

The months that followed were torture.

Amira faded before my eyes. She stopped eating. Stopped laughing. Stared at mirrors as if she no longer recognized herself. I lost thirty pounds. Sleep became impossible. The palace that once felt luxurious now felt like a tomb.

I prayed harder than ever.

But my prayers felt like shouting into silence.

I began asking questions I was never allowed to ask.

If Allah is merciful… why this?
If family is sacred… why destroy it?
If obedience is holy… why does it feel like death?

The Forbidden Discovery

One night, desperate, I searched online for Islamic rulings against sibling marriage.

Instead, I found a Christian website.

I should have closed it immediately. Apostasy is punishable by death in Saudi Arabia.

But the headline stopped me:

“Jesus loves you unconditionally.”

Not obedience.
Not sacrifice.
Not fear.

Love.

I read testimonies—people who spoke of Jesus as a living presence, not a distant authority. I downloaded a Bible app under a fake name and began reading the Gospel of Matthew in secret.

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

I wept.

For the first time, God felt… near.

The Night Everything Changed

On the night before the wedding, the palace buzzed with preparation. Silk drapes. Flowers. Clerics arriving.

I could not breathe.

At 2:30 a.m., I fell to my knees—not facing Mecca, but staring upward—and whispered a prayer I had never been taught.

“Jesus… if you are real… save us.”

I surrendered everything.

And then the room filled with light.

Not harsh. Not blinding.

Warm. Gentle. Alive.

Jesus stood before me—not as a prophet, but as a Savior. His presence was overwhelming love without condemnation.

“My son,” He said, “I did not create you for bondage.”

I knew, in that moment, that I belonged to Him.

Escape

The next morning, I refused the marriage.

My father threatened me with death.

Then—unexpectedly—an emergency political crisis forced him to leave Riyadh for forty-eight hours.

Within hours, a message arrived.

“Prince Abdullah. We can help you escape.”

By nightfall, I was hidden in a safe house.
By morning, smuggled across the border.

I left behind wealth beyond imagination.

But I carried something greater.

Freedom.

New Life

I was baptized in the Jordan River weeks later.

As I rose from the water, I felt twenty-one years of fear wash away.

I am no longer a prince.

I am a servant of Christ.

I live humbly. I work. I speak. I help others trapped by fear and tradition.

My sister remains in Saudi Arabia—but she has found hope.

And I live every day knowing this truth:

Jesus Christ breaks chains no power on earth can hold.

If He saved me…

He can save anyone.