There are women who raise children without ever giving birth to them. Women whose hands never tremble, whose eyes read souls, not pages. Mother Superior Mostel was one of them. And I — young, orphaned, Arab, and unsure of the world — was one of the many she quietly raised.
Life at the monastery was hushed and holy. Stone walls, blooming vines, soft footsteps echoing in endless corridors. The nuns spoke little but prayed loudly with their lives. I was the only girl among them — not quite nun, not quite student, yet somehow, I was never invisible. I was Salma.
They called me the little bell — not because I was loud, but because they said my presence made people pause, reflect, and smile.
It was Mother Superior who allowed me into the boys' classrooms at St. Andrews. A monastery rule gently broken, yet never questioned, because it was her who broke it. She looked at me one day and said, "Your mind is not a candle, Salma. It's a flame. Let it burn where it must."
So I studied with the boys. Sat in the back, quiet, but never unseen. I asked questions no one else thought to ask. I debated the idea of time, the nature of good, and whether a soul could be both wounded and wise. The priests marveled at my understanding of philosophy, but it was Mother Superior who shaped the heart behind the thoughts.
She taught me more than scripture. She taught me how to listen to silence. How to forgive without an apology. How to be strong without ever needing to raise my voice.
Some nights, she would sit beside my bed with a candle in her hand and read me verses from both the Bible and ancient philosophers. She never judged me for being different — she only reminded me that my difference was my design. She'd say, "God does not make mistakes, little one. You are not a lost thing — you are a chosen one."
And in her quiet presence, I healed.
One morning, I found her praying alone in the courtyard. Her hands trembling slightly, her rosary wrapped tightly between her fingers. I didn't speak. I just sat beside her.
She opened her eyes and smiled gently. "Salma," she whispered, "if I had a daughter… I would have wanted her to be like you."
I don't remember if I cried then. But I remember how, for the first time in my life, I felt safe.
Not because I had a home.
Not because I had answers.
But because I had love.