I'm puzzled—why would Juliet come back like a street child?
But those questions clearly were not mine to answer.
The journey was quiet until we reached the massive castle. It was green and lively. Fathers with books were on the way to St. Andrews Boys School, and nuns with rosaries were marching in a line to the cathedral.
When we entered, a woman in her twenties came and greeted me. She introduced herself as Sister Josephine and gave me a tour of this large monastery. It accommodated both male and female training centers for priests and nuns. And down the hill was St. Andrews Boys School for the younger church servants.
We then entered a room.
In the room sat a woman in her sixties. Quiet. She turned her head toward the door as if she saw us.
Sister Josephine said, "Mother Superior Mostel, I bring the girl."
Mother Superior said, "Is that so?"
Sister Josephine replied, "Yes."
Mother Superior asked, "What's the girl's name?"
Sister Josephine replied, "The girl's name is Salma—Salma the Arab."
Mother Superior laughed. "Is that so... the Arab? But I don't think so."
Then I stepped forward and greeted her,
"My humble greetings, Mother Superior."
Hearing my voice, she smiled gently.
"Indeed, what Sister Sarah wrote is true. What a beautiful voice! Please, come and read the Bible for me."
I walked toward her Bibles and picked one.
Mother Superior said,
"Read me... Psalm 91, verses 1 to 16."
And I started reading:
> 1 Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
2 I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust."
3 Surely he will save you
from the fowler's snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.
9 If you say, "The Lord is my refuge,"
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
10 no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.
14 "Because he loves me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation."
As I continued reading, her breathing grew slower—calmer. She rested her hands gently on her lap and, before I finished the final verse, she had already fallen asleep.
Sister Josephine quietly stepped forward, picked up a soft blanket from the couch, and lovingly covered her. I stood still, my voice softening, the last line still lingering on my lips.
---
That night, I sat by the window of my room, listening to the wind brushing gently against the old glass panes of St. Andrews.
For the first time in many days, I felt safe. The kind of safety that didn't come from walls or people—but from being seen and heard by someone like Mother Superior.
She couldn't see me, but somehow, she had known me. She heard my voice and believed in its worth.
The days that followed were peaceful. I stayed a quiet life. The monastery was calm—old, filled with secrets and prayer—but also alive with learning and spirit.
I learned how to tend the gardens, clean the chapel, and even write in the monastery's logbook. But what I cherished most were the hours I spent beside Mother Superior Mostel. Though blind, she taught me how to see the world through silence, through listening, through faith.
She spoke of joy in stillness, of peace in prayer. And slowly, like a flower in winter sunlight, I opened up.
No one called me "the Arab" anymore. To them, I was just Salma.
And in that sacred, green place on the hill,
I started becoming someone new.