There is a voice calling you from the silence. A hand reaching for you in the dark. His name is Jesus. You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to be perfect. You only have to say yes.
Listen to this testimony
My name is Aisha al-Mutairi. I watched a video about the Iranian top official’s son whose left hand was amputated and I also read through the comments. It was moving to see how many Christians were encouraged by it. That gave me the courage to share my own story to encourage both fellow Christians and the Muslims who may be silently or secretly watching this video in search of salvation.
I am 45 years old and I was born and raised in Al Qassim, a conservative region in central Saudi Arabia. From the time I could speak, I was taught to honor Allah, obey my father, and never question tradition. I lived in a world where every choice was made for me.
At the age of 17, I was married off to Sheikh Abdullah Alharbi, a senior figure in the Ministry of Islamic Affairs. I had never seen his face before our wedding night. My father arranged the marriage because it was seen as an honor. We lived in a large villa in Riyadh’s an-Nakheel district. Our home had tall gates, thick marble floors, and always smelled of oud and cardamom.
I was young, scared, and obedient. I didn’t love him, but I told myself I would learn to. That’s what good Muslim women did. We learned to love through submission, through patience, and through silence. My life from that point on belonged not to me, but to my husband, to Islam, and to the expectations placed on me.
But it also had something else. Expectation. I was the wife of a minister. That meant my behavior reflected directly on Sheikh Abdullah’s name. I wore my abaya and nikad at all times even inside the house if male relatives visited. I rarely spoke in public. My duty was to keep the home in perfect order, prepare the best hospitality for the Imams and guests who visited regularly and raise children in full obedience to the Qur’an. I wasn’t allowed to have outside friends or hobbies. My days were filled with preparing tea trays, memorizing suras and performing wudhu (a cleansing ritual involving washing specific parts of the body) before every prayer.
Sheikh Abdullah was deeply respected in the religious circles, especially by clerics from the Grand Mosque in Mecca. At home, he was firm, distant, and always invoking Allah’s name to remind me of my duties. Two years into our marriage, I gave birth to a baby girl. We named her Layla.
From the moment I held her in my arms, I felt something I had never felt before. Real love. Not obligation, not fear, not religious duty, just love. I would sing to her softly when no one was around. I’d hold her close and whisper dreams I had for her. Dreams I never dared dream for myself. I wanted her to smile freely, to read books, to see the world. She was the only light in my quiet, controlled life.
As she grew, she was different from other girls in the family. She asked questions. She laughed loudly. She was intelligent, strong willed and beautiful. Even Sheikh Abdullah, who was always strict with me, softened around her. He called her his little moon and made plans for her to study at the best institutions when she came of age.
I knew then she was born for something bigger than this house. When Layla turned sixteen, discussions about her future began. Abdullah wanted her to study Islamic law at King Saud University in Riyadh. But Layla had other interests. She was fascinated by literature, philosophy, and languages. I secretly supported her dreams even though I could never say it out loud.
After months of negotiation, Sheikh Abdullah agreed to send her abroad. It wasn’t common, but his position gave us privilege. He believed a western education from a top university would only raise our family’s profile. It was decided that Layla would attend Colombia University in New York City. The official story to our relatives was that she was pursuing advanced Islamic studies, but we knew she would have more freedom there.
I packed her luggage with care, long sleeves, scarves, her Qur’an, and her prayer rug. I kissed her forehead and told her to remember Allah always. But inside, I whispered a different prayer that she would find joy, purpose, and truth, even if it wasn’t what we’d been told all our lives.
Layla arrived in New York City in the Fall of 2018. She was only 18, but already more confident than I had ever been. I remember watching her board the plane from King Khaled International Airport, wearing her black abaya, but beneath it was a young woman eager to explore the world.
At Colombia University, everything around her was different. No call to prayer, no mosques on every street, and no one monitoring her every move. I thought the culture shock would humble her, but instead it gave her space to grow.
She wrote me long emails about her classes in comparative religion and international literature. She told me about the cold winters, the coffee shops, and the freedom she felt just walking down the street. I was glad she was safe, but I started noticing her tone changing. She spoke less about Allah and more about peace and love and truth.
At first, I thought it was just youth talking. By her second year, Layla had found a group of friends who met regularly for study and discussion. She mentioned a girl named Emily from Texas, a practicing Christian, who invited her to group dinners and cultural exchange nights. These gatherings were hosted by Christian students, but Layla said it was only for dialogue and learning. Still, I had an uneasy feeling. When I asked her if she still prayed five times a day, she’d respond with vague answers. I pray, Mama, but I also think a lot. That confused me. What did thinking have to do with praying?
One day, she casually told me she had visited a church in Manhattan, just out of curiosity. My heart dropped. A church? In all my life, I had never stepped foot in one.
I asked her, “Which church?”
And she said, “Redeemer Presbyterian. It’s beautiful, mama. Not like what we were told.” I warned her to be careful, but she laughed it off and said she just liked the music.
Layla didn’t tell me everything, but I later learned she had started attending their weekly Bible study group in secret. It was something she kept hidden from her Muslim friends and from us back home. She would sit quietly, listen to sermons, and read from a book called the New Testament. She was fascinated by the person of Jesus. Not the Isa we had been taught about in Islam. A prophet with no cross, no divinity, but someone more than a prophet, someone who loved deeply, forgave freely, and offered grace instead of judgment. She had so many questions. She wanted to know why his words felt alive, why his message felt different from anything she’d heard in the mosques.
Slowly, she began to see a side of faith that didn’t demand fear, but offered love. And that love began to change her. She still wore her scarf when she went outside, but something inside her was shifting. Her heart was moving in a direction I couldn’t understand.
One night, Layla called me crying. At first, I thought something terrible had happened. But through her tears, she told me about a dream she had. She said she saw a man in glowing white robes standing in a garden filled with light. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were full of kindness. He reached out his hand to her and she felt peace like never before. She said she woke up with tears on her face and the name Yeshua in her mind, a name she had never heard before that dream.
I didn’t know what to say. I told her maybe it was Shaitan trying to confuse her, but she said no. This felt different.
Over the next few weeks, she had the dream again and again. Always the same man, always the same feeling of safety and love and always that name. I began to fear that something spiritual was pulling her away from the teachings of Islam. It was during her final year that Layla made a decision she would never tell us about until much later. She fully gave her heart to Jesus. In the privacy of her small student apartment near Morningside Heights, she knelt down on the floor, not facing Mecca, but simply facing her open window. She told me she whispered a prayer that night, not in Arabic, but in English. She said, “Jesus, I believe in you. I don’t understand everything, but I know you are real. Take my life.”
I learned all of this through her journal after everything happened. At the time, all I noticed was that Layla seemed calmer, lighter, even more joyful than before. She spoke about forgiveness, about loving enemies, and about a God who knows you personally. I didn’t realize she had already crossed over. To me, she was just exploring new ideas. But to Layla, she had already left Islam and walked into a new faith that filled every corner of her soul.
She continued her studies and graduated with honors in Middle Eastern studies and human rights. When we flew to New York to attend her graduation ceremony, she hugged us tightly, but I noticed her cross necklace beneath her scarf. She wore it like a secret, hidden from sight, but never from her heart. I asked her about it, but she just smiled and said, “It’s just jewelry, mama.” I knew better. Something was different.
That summer, she returned to Riyadh, and I welcomed her home with joy and pride. I believed she had gone abroad, learned well, and was ready to serve her country with dignity. But Layla had returned with more than a degree. She had come home with a message, one that would soon tear everything apart. I didn’t know it yet, but the daughter I raised in the ways of Islam had already left Allah behind. She had come home carrying the name of Jesus in her heart, and with it the storm that would soon change our lives forever.
When Layla returned to Riyadh, it was the summer of 2022. The air was hot and still, and everything in our home was exactly as she had left it. Her room was untouched, her prayer rug neatly folded on the shelf, and her Qur’an still resting on the nightstand. But Layla had changed. She walked through the house like a stranger, calm, quiet, and strangely peaceful. She still wore her black abaya as expected, but I noticed something different about how she held herself. Her eyes seemed softer, her smile more patient.
One morning while doing laundry, I found a thin silver chain caught in the folds of her scarf. Attached to it was a tiny cross. My hands trembled. I tucked it back in quietly, not saying a word. I told myself it meant nothing, just a symbol, maybe a gift from a friend. But deep inside, I knew it was more than that. It was a warning.
As the weeks passed, I began to notice other changes in her. She no longer joined us for every prayer time. Sometimes when the call to prayer echoed through the neighborhood from Masjid Al Rama, she would stay in her room. I asked her if she had prayed and she would say softly, “Yes, mama.” But she never looked me in the eye.
One Friday, we attended Juma prayer at our local mosque where Imam al Farrage gave a sermon about the dangers of Western influence. After the prayer, Layla quietly asked him, “How do we know for sure that the Qur’an hasn’t been altered?”
His face froze. He rebuked her gently but firmly, saying, “Doubt is the path to destruction. Daughter, do not question what is perfect.”
I apologized for her and pulled her away, whispering to her never to speak like that again. But she just looked at me calmly and said, “I’m only asking what my heart needs to know.”
At first, I tried to convince myself it was just reverse culture shock. Many students returned from the West confused or unsettled. I thought perhaps Layla was simply struggling to readjust. I even blamed myself for sending her so far away where churches were common and Christian ideas were everywhere.
I asked her gently one night, “Do you still believe in the Qur’an, my daughter?” She smiled and took my hand. I believe in truth, mama. Her answer was not what I wanted. I didn’t know whether to be angry, afraid, or ashamed. But I stayed quiet. I didn’t tell her father, and I didn’t speak to anyone else. I convinced myself that silence would keep the peace, that maybe she would come back to us, that this strange phase would pass. I loved her more than I feared the consequences, and I didn’t want to lose her. But I also knew I was standing on the edge of something I could not control.
Then came the night that broke my silence. We were sitting together on the balcony, watching the sky change colors as the sun set behind the buildings. She turned to me, her eyes full of something I couldn’t name, and said, “Mother, I believe in Jesus now. He found me in New York.”
For a moment, the world stopped. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard her, but her words echoed too loudly in my heart.
“You believe in who?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“In Jesus,” she said again, “not just as a prophet, but as Lord.”
I stared at her in disbelief. My daughter, born into a respected Muslim family, had just confessed to leaving Islam. I felt like the ground beneath me had cracked open. My thoughts raced. I was terrified. Not only for her soul, but for our safety. Apostasy is no small matter in our country. Yet still, I didn’t report her. I couldn’t.
After that night, I noticed Layla becoming more open in subtle ways. She spoke with more conviction even when we disagreed. One afternoon, I overheard her speaking to our neighbor’s daughter, Muna, the bright and curious child of Judge Khalid Aldosari. They sat in the garden sipping tea, and I could hear Layla gently speaking about peace, forgiveness, and love. She never mentioned Jesus directly, but I knew what she was doing.
I confronted her later that evening. “What if someone hears you?” I whispered harshly.
She looked at me without fear. “What if someone listens?” She replied. “Muna asks the same questions I used to ask. Mama, don’t you want her to find answers?”
I felt torn between pride and panic. She was brave. Too brave. I warned her again that people had died for less. That even whispering doubt in the wrong place could bring disaster. But she just smiled that calm, unwavering smile and said, “I’m not afraid. I know who holds me.”
The pressure in our house was growing. Layla was no longer hiding, not fully. Though she still dressed modestly and performed outward duties when necessary, her heart was elsewhere, and I could see it clearly. Her father, Sheikh Abdullah, remained unaware for now. But he had begun to notice her long hours in her room, her refusal to attend certain gatherings, and her unwillingness to recite the Qur’an with him.
One day he said to me, “There is something different in her eyes. Not rebellion, but something deeper. Keep an eye on her.”
I nodded silently, fear twisting in my stomach. I knew the storm was coming. And I also knew that once it arrived, no prayer, no status, no reputation could protect her or me. Still, I didn’t speak. I couldn’t bring myself to betray her. I carried her secret alone, knowing that one word from my lips could destroy everything. But I also knew it was only a matter of time before someone else would see the truth. She was no longer hiding.
It happened on a Thursday afternoon in early September. Layla was in her room and the housemaid, Nura, was folding laundry just outside her door. I was in the kitchen when Nura came rushing in, her face pale and trembling. She whispered, “Madam, I heard her. She’s praying, but not in Arabic. She sang the name of Jesus.”
My heart dropped. My hands froze over the tray I was preparing. Before I could stop her, Nura had already gone to Sheikh Abdullah.
Within minutes, he stormed into Layla’s room. I followed close behind, begging him with my eyes to stay calm. But it was too late. Layla stood with her Bible open on her bed, lips still moving in quiet prayer.
Abdullah snatched the book, threw it across the room, and shouted, “You spit on Islam? You reject Allah in my own house?”
Layla didn’t respond. She only looked at him steady and unafraid. That silence enraged him even more. He struck the wall with his fist, then turned back to her. “Do you understand what this means?” he shouted. “You’ve brought shame on my name, on your family, on everything we stand for.” I stepped between them, trying to calm him, but he pushed me aside.
That night, he made two phone calls, one to his brother in the ministry and one to Imam Alarage. The Imam came early the next morning with his bag of oils and verses. He told us that Layla must have been influenced by evil spirits while abroad. He started the rukia in her room, reciting loudly from the Qur’an, placing his hand over her head while she sat still. Layla didn’t resist, but neither did she pretend to believe.
When he finished, she said gently, “You cannot drive out what is not there.”
The Imam looked at her stunned and turned to Abdullah. “She is beyond my help,” he said. “This is not confusion. She has left Islam.”
Abdullah didn’t sleep that night. He paced the halls like a lion, muttering verses under his breath. On the second day, he called for me and said, “We will go to Medina. She will renounce this lie before the congregation at Masjid and Nabawi. She will stand before the Umah and say she believes in Allah and his prophet or she will be nothing to us.”
I wept. I begged him not to make her do it. I told him that forcing her would only bring more shame, but his mind was made up.
We left for Medina the next morning. Layla sat in silence during the drive. She didn’t cry. She didn’t plead. When we arrived at the mosque, Abdullah spoke to the Imam privately, arranging for Layla to speak.
But when the moment came and all eyes turned to her, Layla simply said, “I believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”
Gasps filled the mosque. Someone shouted, “Astaghfirullah” (“I seek forgiveness from Allah”).
Abdullah’s face turned white with rage. He grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the mosque. I followed them back to the car, begging him to stop, but he didn’t say a word. That night, back in Riyadh, he locked her in the basement of our home. It was a cold, windowless room we used for storage. He took her phone, her books, even her pillows. “Until you come back to Islam, you will stay here,” he said.
I pleaded with him. I reminded him that she was his only daughter, that she had always been good and loyal. But to him, she had become an enemy of Allah. She has brought death to our door.
He said, “This is an honor crime. I am cleaning the shame.”
I couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth. He was not the man I had married. He had become someone else, someone willing to destroy his own child to defend a reputation. The days turned into weeks. Layla stayed locked in that basement with only bread and water. At first, she sang softly to herself. Then she prayed aloud in English. I would sit near the door listening with tears in my eyes.
One night, I crept down when Abdullah was asleep and passed her a blanket and a few verses from her Bible I had managed to hide. She kissed my hands and said, “Don’t worry, Mama. He can hurt my body but not my soul.” Every time I saw her, she looked thinner, but her spirit remained strong.
Abdullah meanwhile became more and more consumed with rage. He told his brothers and friends that Layla had fallen under western brainwashing. He said she was ungrateful and needed correction. He even spoke to a cleric from Mecca about sending her to a private rehabilitation center for apostates. I feared he was planning something worse. I wanted to save her, but I didn’t know how. Every move I made was watched.
Nora, the maid, had become silent and distant, no longer helping me with small mercies. Friends from the neighborhood had stopped visiting. Rumors were spreading, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone from the ministry took notice. Still, I couldn’t let go.
Late at night, I would kneel in my room and whisper the same words Layla had once said, “Jesus, if you are real, protect my daughter.” I didn’t understand what I was doing or who I was praying to. But I was desperate. The man I had once respected now scared me. Our home had become a prison, and my daughter was its captive. But Layla never broke. Every time I looked into her eyes, I saw something burning brighter than fear. And that frightened me more than anything because I knew Abdullah could see it too.
It was a Thursday night just after midnight when it happened. I had just finished praying, though by then I wasn’t sure who I was praying to anymore. I sat in the living room in silence and that’s when I heard the first scream. It came from the basement. It was Layla’s voice, sharp, high, and full of pain. I jumped up and ran to the stairwell, but the door was locked. Abdullah had taken the key with him to bed. I banged on the door with my fists, shouting her name, shouting for him to stop.
The walls were thick, but I could hear it clearly, the sound of skin being struck, something boiling, the hiss of hot oil hitting flesh, and her choking sobs. My knees gave out. I sat on the floor, helpless, listening to the cries of my child. Minutes passed, then silence. a heavy, suffocating silence that told me something had ended.
The next morning, I woke up on the floor. My head ached and my hands were bruised from pounding the door. I rushed to the basement as soon as Abdullah left for prayer. I unlocked it with the spare key I had hidden months ago. The smell hit me first. Burnt oil, blood, and something else I still can’t describe. Layla lay on the cold concrete floor. Her body curled in on itself. Her skin blistered and raw. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were closed. I called her name again and again, but she didn’t move. I touched her face, cold, still. She was gone. My daughter died alone in pain on the hard floor of our own home.
My screams filled the house, but no one came. Nura, the maid, stood at the top of the stairs, shaking. She had seen Abdullah carry the pot of oil down the night before. She had heard what I heard, but she said nothing. An hour later, the police came. I didn’t call them. Nura had. She had used her hidden phone to dial emergency services in secret.
When the officers arrived, Abdullah was calm. He told them Layla had been mentally unstable for months. He said she had refused to eat, had harmed herself, and that she had died from a breakdown. He even produced medical reports, fabricated ones from a private clinic in Jeddah.
The officers looked at the body, took a few notes, then left. No autopsy, no photos, no investigation. The case was closed in less than an hour. Death by mental health crisis. That’s what they wrote. No charges, no arrest. The story was buried before the body. I wanted to scream, to fight, to expose the truth, but I had no one. No lawyer would touch a case involving a senior minister.
Layla’s name disappeared from every record as if she had never existed at all. Her burial was rushed. There was no call to prayer over her grave, no friends, no neighbors, no farewell, just a quiet plot on the edge of the cemetery in Almalaz. I watched them lower her body into the ground, wrapped in a plain white cloth, her face already gone from the world.
Abdullah didn’t shed a single tear. He stood stiff, muttering Qur’an verses, and left before the soil was even packed. I stayed long after everyone else had gone. I knelt beside her grave and wept until my voice broke. I whispered apologies. I begged her to forgive me. I told her I had tried. I had tried to protect her, to reason with him, to find another way. But in the end, I failed. I failed as a mother, and I couldn’t undo any of it.
I returned home that night to a quiet house where the scent of oil still lingered in the halls like a curse.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my room with the lights off, staring at the ceiling, my chest heavy with grief. And then something happened. The air in the room shifted just slightly at first, like the presence of someone entering quietly. I sat up, heart pounding, the room filled with a soft glow. I turned toward the door and there she was, Layla. Not as she had died, but whole. Her skin unscarred, her eyes bright, her hair loose over her shoulders. She stood in white, glowing softly. Her face was peaceful, not angry. She looked at me and smiled. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
“Mama,” she said, her voice calm and gentle. “I forgive him. I saw him. He welcomed me.”
I burst into tears. I wanted to reach out to hold her, but my hands wouldn’t move. She wasn’t here to stay. She was here to give me peace. And then, just as quietly, she was gone.
After the vision, I didn’t sleep. I sat in silence until the morning call to prayer echoed across the rooftops. But I didn’t rise to pray. I couldn’t. I didn’t know who to pray to anymore. Allah had not saved my daughter. The Imams had turned their backs. But Layla, she had found peace. She had seen something on the other side, something real.
I remembered her words again and again. “He found me, mama. Jesus found me.” I held on to that sentence like a lifeline. It was the only truth that made sense in the middle of the horror. That night changed me. I wasn’t the same. I didn’t understand everything, but I knew this. Whatever Layla saw, whatever light welcomed her, it wasn’t a lie. It was love. Pure, radiant love. And for the first time in my life, I wanted to follow that love, even if it cost me everything.
After Layla’s death, the house became a grave. Every room reminded me of her. Her laughter, her questions, her quiet prayers behind closed doors. But it wasn’t just the memory of her that haunted me. It was the silence from the religion I had devoted my life to. I had prayed five times a day since I was a girl. I had obeyed my husband, followed every rule, hosted scholars, memorized verses. But when my daughter was being tortured in the name of that same religion, no one came. Not Allah, not the Imams, not the community.
I began to wonder, not with anger, but with sorrow. Was this what Islam really taught? That a daughter’s death could be justified in the name of honor? That silence was more holy than compassion? I felt the foundation of everything I believed begin to shake. The Qur’an felt distant. The prayers felt hollow. And for the first time in my life, I allowed myself to question.
One afternoon, I found myself in Layla’s room. It had been untouched since the funeral. Her bed sheets were still folded. Her books were stacked neatly on her desk. As I sat there, I noticed a notebook tucked beneath her pillow. Alongside it was a small leather-bound book, her Bible written in Arabic. I opened the notebook first. It was her journal. She had written about her first dream of Jesus, the fear of telling me the truth, and her prayers for my salvation. One page read, “Mama is closer to the light than she knows. I just want her to see.” I cried over those words for a long time.
Then I opened the Bible. I had never read it before, not even once. My hands trembled as I turned the pages. I expected anger, judgment, but what I found were words about grace, love, and peace. I felt like someone had poured warm water over a frozen heart. It didn’t feel foreign. It felt familiar.
That night, I sat alone in the living room and opened YouTube on Layla’s old tablet. I searched the words ‘ex-Muslim testimony,’ ‘Jesus’, and hundreds of videos came up. I clicked the first one. It was a young woman from Egypt. Her story sounded so much like Layla’s. Then another, an older man from Jordan. He spoke of seeing Jesus in a dream, of feeling love like never before. I watched for hours. Some cried, some smiled. All of them had the same message. They had left religion and found a relationship. A relationship with someone who loved them even when they were broken.
I realized I wasn’t alone in my doubts. I wasn’t the first Muslim mother who had lost a child to this faith and dared to ask why. The stories gave me comfort, but they also left me unsettled. I knew I was stepping into dangerous territory, but I couldn’t stop. Something had begun, and I knew I had to follow it.
That night, I had a dream that shook me to my core. I was standing at the edge of a deep, dark pit. The ground beneath me was crumbling and the sky above was black. From the pit, I heard voices, angry, accusing voices. They sounded like Imams, like my husband, like every cleric I had ever served tea to. “You betrayed the truth,” they shouted. “You deserve fire. You rejected Allah.”
I fell to my knees, terrified, crying out for help, but there was no light, no escape. The darkness felt alive, like it was wrapping around my legs, trying to pull me in. I screamed for mercy, but none came.
And just as the voices grew louder, I heard a whisper, gentle, firm, and completely different. “This is not your end.” In that moment, the darkness paused, just long enough for me to open my eyes. I sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. I knew it wasn’t just a dream. It was a warning.
The next evening, I knelt beside my bed, not facing Mecca, not using the Tasbeeh, just quietly with shaking hands. I whispered words I never thought I’d say. “Jesus, if you are real, come to me. I don’t know who you are, but Layla loved you. And I saw her. I saw her face. She was not afraid. If you are who she said you are, I need you now. Please show me.”
The moment the words left my lips, I felt something shift in the room. The air became still, heavy, but warm. Then a light, soft, steady, filled the corner of the room. It wasn’t blinding, but it was bright enough to chase away the fear. I froze, unable to move or speak. And then I heard it, a voice, not loud, not harsh, but full of peace. It said only five words. “You are not forsaken, Aisha.”
Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t see anyone, but I didn’t need to. The voice was real. The light was real and the peace it filled every broken place inside me. I had spent my entire life trying to be perfect in the eyes of religion. But in that moment, I was simply known and still loved. I stayed on the floor for what felt like hours just breathing, just crying. I knew everything had changed. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone. I wasn’t even ready to say I had converted. But something deep inside me had awakened. I wasn’t walking in the dark anymore. Layla had seen the truth. And now so had I.
I didn’t know what would come next. But I knew this. I would never again be silent. I had seen enough. I had heard his voice. And nothing would ever be the same again. After that night, when the light came and I heard his voice, I knew I couldn’t stay in Riyadh. I was still living under the roof of a man who had murdered his own daughter. Every day I walked past the room where Layla had once laughed, studied, and prayed in secret. Every night I lay in bed wondering if Abdullah would find out what I had seen, what I now believed. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew I had to leave before he did.
I began reaching out online using an old email Layla once helped me create. I wrote a message, short, desperate, and honest, and sent it to a Christian aid organization I had seen in one of the testimonies on YouTube. I told them I was a Muslim woman in danger, a mother whose child had died for her faith in Christ, and I was ready to follow him, even if it cost me everything.
Two weeks later, I received a reply. It came from a woman named Sarah who worked with a small Christian network that helped persecuted believers find safe passage out of hostile environments. She didn’t ask many questions. She only asked me one thing. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave behind everything?” I said, “Yes.” I was more than ready.
With their help, I applied for a tourist visa to Cyprus. Abdullah believed I was going to visit a cousin in Beirut for a short women’s retreat. He barely looked up when I told him. He had been distant since Layla’s death, more focused on his ministry and appearances than anything else.
I packed only a small suitcase. In it, I placed my passport, a change of clothes, Layla’s Bible, and the notebook with her final prayers. I wore my nikab as I left the house, but I knew it would be the last time I wore it in submission. I wasn’t going back.
The flight to Cyprus was quiet. I looked out the window the entire time, praying in silence, whispering Jesus’s name under my breath. My hands were shaking, but I felt free. When I arrived in Larnaca, I was met by two women from the church. They didn’t ask many questions. They gave me a warm blanket, a bottle of water, and drove me straight to Limassol, where I was placed in a small guest house run by a local Christian family.
I was safe for the first time in my life. I was somewhere no one could tell me who I had to be, what I had to say, or who I was allowed to worship. I fell to my knees that night in that small room with no rug, no compass pointing to Mecca, no Arabic verses. Just me and Jesus. I wept, not in fear, but in release. I had left everything behind, my name, my home, my country. But I had found the truth.
The asylum process was difficult. I had to meet with government officials, provide proof of my story, and explain why I could never return to Saudi Arabia. I showed them Layla’s journal, the burn report from the clinic, and the medical report I had hidden from Abdullah after her death. It was enough. A month later, I received official notice that I had been granted asylum under protection for religious persecution. I was given a temporary residency permit and the freedom to remain in Cyprus legally.
That night, Sarah and her husband took me to a small church near the sea. It was quiet, simple, with wooden pews and a white cross on the wall. The pastor prayed over me. I asked to be baptized. They offered to wait until I felt ready, but I told them I had waited too long already. A week later, I was baptized in the shallow waters of the Mediterranean Sea. I took a new name, Grace. They asked me why I chose that name, and I told them, “Because I should be dead, but I’m alive. Because I should be bitter, but I’m at peace. Because I lost everything, but I’ve been given something greater.”
In that moment, as the water washed over me, I saw Layla again in my mind, standing in white, smiling, whole. I knew she was watching. I knew she was proud. I no longer felt ashamed. I no longer needed to hide. I was not an ex-Muslim. I was a new creation, a daughter of the living God.
I began attending disciplehip classes at the church, learning the scriptures Layla had once read in secret. I found healing in the words of Jesus, in the promises he made, in the hope he gave. And slowly, the pieces of my broken heart began to fit together again. Not in the same shape, but in something new, something stronger.
News of my departure reached Riyadh. Within weeks, Abdullah announced to the community that I had dishonored him by abandoning Islam and disappearing to the West. He remarried a younger woman, someone from a family close to the religious court, and made it clear that I was no longer his wife. I received no formal divorce, just a message sent through his assistant stating, “You are dead to us now.”
I expected it in some ways. I welcomed it. It was a strange feeling being erased. But I remembered what Layla had written. If the world forgets you, heaven will still know your name. I wasn’t afraid. I had already been dead inside. Now I was alive in Christ. And that life, no matter how lonely or hidden, was better than the finest palace built on lies.
I had no family left, no possessions, and no home to return to. But I had truth. I had peace. And I had a purpose. With the help of the ministry that supported me, I began sharing my story. First anonymously, then more openly. I wrote articles under a different name. I gave audio interviews with my voice altered. I joined prayer groups for women who had experienced similar loss and trauma. I told the story of Layla, not with bitterness, but with hope. I told them what I had seen, what I had heard, and how I had been changed.
Slowly, my testimony began reaching women in places I could never imagine. Pakistan, Egypt, Sudan, even Iran. Many wrote to me in secret using fake names and coded email addresses. Some had doubts. Some had dreams like Layla’s. Some were already believers trapped in silence. I told every one of them the same thing. You are not alone. You are not forgotten. There is a name above all names who sees you. Call on him, he will answer.
Now I live quietly in Limassol. I clean houses to earn a little money and teach Arabic to refugee children. I volunteer at the church, help prepare meals for new arrivals, and spend my evenings reading the Psalms Layla once underlined. I don’t have much, but I have enough. Enough peace to sleep, enough grace to forgive, enough strength to keep speaking.
Sometimes I walk by the sea and talk to Jesus out loud. I tell him about the women still trapped. About the girls afraid to question, about the mothers like me who have lost too much. I ask him to give them what he gave me. Light in the dark.
I have not returned to Saudi Arabia and I never will. My face is no longer on any family wall. My name is not spoken in any Riyadh gathering. But I am not grieving anymore. I am not hiding. I am not ashamed. I am free. And I am finally known.
I used to wonder why God allowed Layla to die. Why he didn’t rescue her that night. But now I understand. Layla’s death was not the end. It was the beginning of my salvation. Her blood was not wasted. Her life planted a seed that grew in me. And now that seed is bearing fruit. I couldn’t save her, but through her death, I found eternal life. She gave me more than I ever gave her. Through her I met the one who saves, who restores, who loves without condition. His name is Jesus. He is the only way, the only truth and the only life. No culture, no religion, no system of control can offer what he gives. What I lost in this world, I have gained in eternity. I may never see justice on this earth, but I have found something greater than justice, redemption.
If you are reading this and you are afraid, I understand. If you are questioning, you are not evil. If you feel alone, you are not forgotten. There is a voice calling you from the silence. A hand reaching for you in the dark. His name is Jesus. You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to be perfect. You only have to say yes.
I lived in silence for too long. I followed rules that killed my daughter. I served a religion that never knew my heart. But now I follow a Savior who calls me by name, who saw me when no one else did, who gave me back my voice. And with that voice, I will speak. I will keep telling the truth no matter who tries to stop me because somewhere out there, another Layla is waiting. And her story must be told.
Jesus is real. His love is real. And it will find you just like it found me.
This is based on the transcript of a testimony video posted online.
