Chapter 1: The story of my birth.
Where should I start?
O Mary, mother of Jesus—
Is my story worthy of all eyes and ears?
My birth name is Salma... the Arab.
Later, Mother Superior called me Salma Monstel.
Now, I am Salma Kasim, the royal princess.
I am the daughter of a nobody, yet surely—Mother Superior's child.
This is my story. My memoir. My journey.
Don't look for the girl in the rain,
For I am the princess in the rain.
I'm just a lonely soul who tasted peace—
For a moment.
Until I saw them... the Arab men.
I want peace.
But the world won't let me have it.
If they would let me be,
I would let them be.
They called me to my doom.
And for that,
I hope they are not forgiven—
And I will not forgive them.
---
I am the product of an illegal—haram—relationship.
My mother, a woman from the noble Khasim clan,
Fell in love with the engaged Prince of Qatar, with the pretty eyes.
At the National University of Qatar.
That's where it began.
In secrecy.
In passion.
In shame.
Their secret love made me bear the title "haram"
before I ever stepped foot into this world.
I was named haram,
A bastard.
In our world, in a Muslim country,
Morality isn't just personal—it's tribal.
Shame is not just yours;
It stains your clan.
The Khasims were not exempt.
When the Khasims found out about her pregnancy,
My mother was brought before the elders.
They didn't give her a chance to speak and no room for mercy.
"You deserve to be caned," they said.
"But if we do that, the world will know."
"So we discard you instead."
To be clanless—in a society of tribes—is a slow death.
They told her,
"For a thousand generations, no one has brought shame like this.
You will not be the first."
She was exiled.
No family. No tribe. No protection.
She had become a bird with no wings
She tried contacting the prince.
But the moment he heard of her disgrace,
He vanished—like the coward he was.
In desperation,
She marched to the palace.
She caused a scene until the guards and gatekeepers knew her name.
Until the Emir himself heard.
They brought her in,
Like a secret.
To a dark room where a man sat in regal stillness—
The Emir, father of her lover.
> "Is that child for my son?" he asked.
"Yes, father," she said, respectfully.
"I believe you," he replied. "But my son is engaged.
You can no longer marry him. You are clanless.
It would ruin us all."
She was not yelled at.
Just discarded—quietly, powerfully.
The Emir made a decision:
She would be sent away.
To London.
Far from Qatar. Far from cameras. Far from shame.
In London, she was alone.
Pregnant. Banished. Forgotten.
Though the house was fine,
Her soul was not.
She cried every night.
Her heart shattered, not because she had no siblings—
But because her own father came up with the punishment.
He, who had four wives and 32 children.
He, who valued pride more than blood.
He chose honor over her life.
She wondered:
"Why didn't they just cane me?
Why not keep me hidden at home?"
"Why discard me like I never existed?"
Her thoughts broke her.
Her mind began to unravel.
She escaped.
She wandered London's streets like a ghost
Until someone found her and placed her in a mental hospital.
But she didn't stay long.
Labor came early.
She named her baby girl Salma.
She died before giving a surname.
And that was the story of Razila Khasim—
A noble daughter
Discarded like a rumor.
A girl who ended up in a place
Her ancestors never even dreamed of.
And she was my mother.