– Day 1 as Princess Salma bint Kareem
They called me Your Highness today.
But no one asked how I slept.
The pillows were silk.
The ceiling was painted with stars.
But I missed the plain white of the convent roof.
I saw my father's face.
Then I lost it.
And no one can tell me if that counts as love or just loss.
They changed my name.
But my soul didn't come with it.
I smiled at the mirrors,
but every reflection looked like someone I hadn't met yet.
If I am royalty now,
why do I feel more like a ghost?
—Salma
---
The palace smelled of incense and old authority. Perfumed halls whispered with tapestries, history hanging in golden threads. Somewhere between the hush of servants and the rustle of royal silk, Salma moved like a visitor in her own skin.
She had not grown up here—her childhood had been cloistered behind the walls of a convent, filled with candlelight and the distant chime of bells. Now, beneath the marble domes and opulent chandeliers, the prayers were different. They rose five times a day, in Arabic, echoing across the courtyards and into her heart like a call both familiar and foreign.
She had embraced Islam. Not out of force, not even out of obligation—but something in its rhythm had stirred her. The Quran's verses calmed what the Psalms once held. Yet she had not abandoned the hymns that lived in her memory, nor the feel of a rosary between her fingers. Religion was not a robe she could change—it was a garden where new roots tangled with old.
The Emir—her grandfather—was a towering man, regal and intimidating. But in his presence, Salma discovered something unexpected: warmth. He would summon her after noon prayers, sometimes for tea, sometimes for silence.
"You speak like a woman twice your age," he once remarked, stroking his white beard thoughtfully.
"I owe that to the Mother Superior," Salma replied, hands folded neatly on her lap. "She taught me the strength of quiet words."
The Emir had smiled. A rare thing.
"You are your father's daughter," he said.
But she had not known her father well enough to say if that was true.
In the eyes of the court, Princess Salma was a marvel. A convert. A noblewoman returned. A granddaughter crowned with strange grace. But behind the compliments were questions. She felt them. Their eyes weighed her—was she loyal enough? Muslim enough? Royal enough?
Her ladies-in-waiting whispered in Turkish. The eunuchs bowed too deeply. And the maids who helped her bathe lowered their gaze, as though ashamed of her skin.
She missed the sound of Latin prayers. She missed cold mornings and simple bread. She missed being anonymous. In the palace, every gesture was watched. Every sigh, measured. Every decision, a symbol.
Once, she found herself wandering into the old library. Dusty and forgotten. No one had followed her there. She ran her fingers over the spines of books in Arabic, Persian, Greek. She found a quiet joy in translating psalms into Arabic—not for worship, but for memory.
One night, she dared to light a candle in her chamber—not oil lamps, not gold candelabras—just a small beeswax candle like the ones the nuns used.
It flickered in rebellion.
---
They said I had everything now.
But what I want most is silence without suspicion,
And faith that doesn't require forgetting.
I think God understands this.
And I hope He is not disappointed.
—Salma
---
Despite everything, Salma adjusted—but slowly, like a painting being re-colored. She began attending court gatherings, sitting beside ministers and scholars, offering ideas when asked. The Emir began trusting her insight.
"The art of conversation is a rare weapon," he told her. "You wield it with grace. Your convent did well."
It became their inside joke.
Once a week, she visited the Sultan—a frail old man with a sharp mind. While others came to flatter, Salma came to speak. She told him of her convent days, of ancient hymns, of the way snow tasted on her tongue.
The Emir would laugh, sometimes until he wheezed. "You are a poet, not a princess."
"Maybe I am both," she'd answer softly.
---
In time, the palace began to shift. Salma's presence softened the coldness. Servants stopped avoiding her gaze. One of her ladies began learning the melody of a hymn she hummed. And once, during Eid, she caught herself crying—not from sorrow, but from the strange peace of it all.
She had not forgotten Christianity. She had not betrayed it either. She carried it with her, like the scent of bread on a winter morning—faint, but enduring.
And she carried Islam too, cradled in her hands like a lantern in the dark.
---
They still call me Your Highness.
But sometimes now, they ask how I slept.
Last night I dreamed of stars.
And this time, they were not painted on the ceiling.
—Salma