With no relatives, I was taken to the Catholic orphanage of St. Mary's. A massive mansion—probably once a palace but now donated to the Church and made an orphanage. This is where most of its children become servants of the Church when not adopted.
And what is most daring in this world than serving your Lord?
Although I was little, I was placed in Sister Sarah's care, the head of the orphanage.
She was someone who saw all skin colours equal—for hell or heaven, no one is favoured except your deeds.
And here I was loved. And somehow, I always knew they loved me—the baby with the curly black hair and pretty eyes.
The sisters loved me. I was an extraordinary baby, at least from the white babies. And the least I could do was smile to my best, although I had no teeth at that time. Then they called me the baby with the cute laughter. I came to realise these people cannot resist cute things.
Children always played by my side and always carried me—thus it was my happiest moments when all loved me. Although they didn't understand why I had curly hair.
I didn't understand one thing. Although all the kids loved me for I was cute, when people came to adopt a child, they never took me. They always said An Arab. Although I didn't know what's an Arab, from their looks, they surely distaste the word Arab.
Happiness was never to last—until I reached six years. Now my real facial appearance was visible. Even a man who hasn't seen foreigners would know that I ain't from here.
I was surely different from them. And children tend to avoid things they don't understand.
I was okay with that, for the last thing I wanted was the noise the children always made around me when we were playing... but I loved it.
Now my life became a life of quiet. But I discovered a new joy.
Sister Sarah, who saw I had those pretty eyes, joked, Why don't you use those pretty eyes to serve God? There, she said it. Deep down, I always wanted to know this God.
Whenever we were in the church and the priest said Jesus, deep down in me would say Christ.
To relieve boredom, I followed Sister Sarah around and learned the Holy Scriptures.
Whenever I read, I felt good in my heart—not because I knew what it was, but it was indeed good.
With curiosity, I asked Sister Sarah, Why does my heart feel good?
She smiled and said it was at peace. And surely, I knew it was at peace.
This peace was good, but it only lasted until a girl named Juliet was transferred to our orphanage—and it was clear it wasn't for a good reason. For those who get transferred to a Church orphanage are only shifted here for moral or discipline reset.
The moment she arrived, all the children at the orphanage wanted to be her friends, and they were around her like flies on meat. She was now kind of a celebrity here.
I never once crossed paths with her, but from a distance, she gave me distasteful looks—like those people who came to adopt children.
I started to get curious and always checked myself. Maybe there was something distasteful about me? And why did the children avoid me in the first place?
Till the day, a little girl bumped at Juliet in the dining room, causing her food to spill down. And out of nowhere, Juliet pointed at me.
"You Arab!"
This was the first time I heard that word. I turned and looked around me, thinking maybe she meant someone behind me—but there was nobody. So she definitely meant me.
Doubtfully, I asked, voice low, "Are you meaning me?"
Juliet barked at me, "And who do you think here is from the Middle East?"
Everyone was surprised, for indeed we didn't know what she meant.
A question on a question I quite didn't understand—not mentioning her new terms.
I looked puzzled—and this angered her. She then said, "Come and clean this!"
Although she didn't talk it nicely, we here at the orphanage help each other. So I came humbly, partly because I respected her age, and knelt down and cleaned the floor.
She then started laughing, "Oh my God, I can't believe I just made an Arab clean the floor!"
Now I'm curious, and asked Juliet, "What is an Arab?"
She looked at me, speechless—but now everyone in the room wanted to know what was an Arab.
When I looked at her, she seemed not to know the answer. But she said loud and clear for everyone to hear:
"Arabs," she said, "all wear long dresses—both men and women."
It wasn't ridiculous, for all the orphanage know the Church servants wear dresses, starting from the Pope to the nuns.
Juliet, knowing she didn't make her point well, said, "They kill people. They are terrorists."
Hearing that, all the children were scared. Even one asked, "Is that true, Salma?"
Juliet continued, "They are Muslims and hate Christians."
I looked at Juliet—and I have never seen such hate in someone's eyes. That I asked Juliet, "What have I done wrong to you?"
One of the children threw food at me. "Shut up! Why are you asking? You are a murderer!"
Then all the children started throwing food at me, calling me names I never knew. They called me a Muslim—and I didn't know what a Muslim was, and yet I was baptised alongside them.
And then they called me a terrorist—and yet I never killed anybody.
They even gave me a surname: Salma the Arab.
By the time the sisters came to my aid, this incident had already left a dark mark on me… maybe it was the beginning of my sad life. But maybe it started a long time ago that I didn't even notice.
Surely this day has become the nightmare of my life, and I thought so many times—maybe I shouldn't have asked that question.
But one thing I realised that day was—they hated Arabs.
And I was unwanted.