I was only thirteen when the monastery doors became my world. The youngest among them, with no last name worth mentioning, no family tree to trace, and no homeland that truly held me—yet inside those ancient stone walls, I was never made to feel small.
Staying with the nuns at such a young age played a big part in shaping me into the person I became. Discipline was quiet here, not harsh. Compassion came in the form of soft hands and shared silence. The nuns didn't just pray — they lived prayer. They braided it into their lives like hair into veils. And slowly, I began to do the same.
Everyone in the monastery knew me. Little Salma. The Arab girl. The orphan. But not in a pitiful way. I was the morning song before the first light of dawn. The only child in a sea of robes and rosaries, and yet somehow, I fit.
I helped Sister Agnes prepare communion wafers even though I wasn't baptized. I tended the garden with Sister Ruth, who taught me the names of every herb and how they healed. I scrubbed the chapel floors beside Sister Heloise, who always hummed lullabies from another century. And when I read aloud, especially to Mother Superior Mostel, the whole monastery seemed to pause and listen. My voice belonged in that quiet place. Like incense. Like light.
But there was one day—one moment—that stitched itself into my heart forever.
It was a chilly morning. The sky was still wrapped in early mist when I entered the tower. The bell rope hung like a long black serpent above us, unreachable. Forbidden. We weren't allowed to touch it—most of us never dared look too long. That bell called souls to Mass, marked deaths, resurrections, weddings, and seasons. It was sacred.
But that day, Sister Carina looked at me with a smile I couldn't quite understand. "Ring it, Salma," she said. "You're the first to arrive."
My hands trembled. I glanced at the rope, then at her. "Me?"
She nodded gently. "Yes, you."
I took the rope in both hands. It was heavier than it looked. I pulled with all my might.
The bell groaned, then sang.
Its voice was deep and holy, rolling across the hills like the voice of God. It filled the sky. It echoed in my chest like thunder, and something inside me shifted. I laughed — really laughed — for the first time in a long while.
For a moment, I forgot I was an orphan. I forgot I was different. I forgot I was Arab.
I simply was. I belonged.
The bell had made space for me — not in secret, but loudly, boldly. That sound had told the world, She is here.
And for the first time in my life, I felt safe. Not just protected, but truly safe — the kind of safety that makes you cry when no one is looking. The kind that makes you think God must've been waiting for you to arrive all along.
Later that day, during my first Mass seated among the sisters, I didn't whisper or shrink into myself. I stood when they stood. I sang when they sang. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of stained-glass light on my face.
I wasn't just a guest in that holy place.
I was a part of it.