When the e-mail came, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to convince myself that half a loaf of dry bread was enough for lunch.
It wasn't glamorous. A small NGO working on women's empowerment needed a part-time outreach assistant. The pay was barely enough for rent and school fees, but the offer felt like an unexpected knock on a locked door. I didn't hesitate. I sent a shaky "yes" within minutes.
On my first day, I wore my only clean blouse, ironed with steam from a kettle. The office was modest—just two rooms, one clunky desktop computer, and stacks of dusty folders—but something about it felt honest.
My supervisor, Salma, was a soft-spoken woman with wise eyes and a worn handbag. She introduced me to everyone with a kindness I hadn't known in a long time.
"You'll be doing community visits, helping with workshop logistics. Simple things," she said. "But important ones."
I nodded, trying not to look too eager.
There was no prestige in filing reports or stacking chairs, but after months of silence and self-loathing, I was grateful for the routine. I showed up early, stayed late, and scribbled my thoughts in a small leather notebook I kept in my bag. At night, I'd re-read my entries—sometimes cringing, sometimes weeping. Writing became my mirror.
Ø Today I spoke to a woman who sells tomatoes at the market. She said her husband left last year. I didn't offer advice. I just listened. And maybe that was enough.
Zawadi still barely spoke to me, but she ate dinner now. Amani had stopped asking why Baba never came back. He simply hugged my waist at random times, as if to reassure himself I was still there.
One Thursday, after a long day distributing leaflets in Chamazi, Salma leaned over her desk and said, "You're quiet. But not closed. That's rare."
I laughed. "Quiet, yes. But only because I'm still figuring myself out."
She nodded. "We all are. Would you ever consider joining our Bible study group on Saturday afternoons?"
My breath caught. It was the first time in years anyone had invited me to anything that wasn't obligatory or painful.
"I'm not… religious," I said.
She smiled gently. "Neither are most people at the beginning. Just come. Sit. Listen. No pressure."
I didn't answer then. But that Saturday, after feeding the children and washing our threadbare curtains, I found myself walking the ten minutes to her street.
The group met under a mango tree, eight women seated on mats, Bibles open, some with toddlers playing at their feet. I sat at the edge, hesitant. They welcomed me with nods and warm smiles.
The scripture that day was from Isaiah. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."
I felt the words settle in me like dust on old glass. I didn't know what they meant yet. But they sounded like forgiveness.
Afterwards, a woman passed me a small booklet. "You'll understand more as you go," she said. "The Word has a way of chasing you down."
I nodded, unsure if I was grateful or frightened.
Each Saturday became easier. The stories stopped feeling like fables and started feeling like echoes—versions of my own brokenness mirrored back in ancient names and wandering hearts.
I began praying again—not in grand gestures, but in quiet thoughts during morning bus rides or while braiding Amani's hair. I asked for peace. For patience. For Zawadi's heart to soften. For a way back to the girl I used to be before pride and beauty stole my wisdom.
One morning, after a long silence, Zawadi looked up from her toast and said, "You seem… different."
"Good different or strange different?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Not sure yet."
That night, I wrote in my notebook:
Ø She noticed. Even if just a little. Maybe grace is working behind the scenes.
Work, Bible studies, and the children filled my days, and though nothing was easy, the days didn't feel so empty anymore. I hadn't forgotten Yona. I hadn't stopped missing what we once were. But the ache now had a purpose.
I was trying. And maybe that was enough for now.