Kousba Monastery Silence | صمت دير قوسبا
"She manages the retreat center at Kousba's ancient monastery. He's the burned-out CEO seeking silence he doesn't know how to hold. In sacred quiet, words become unnecessary. 'Inti el sukoun el wahid' (أنتِ السكون الوحيد)."
Kousba Monastery Silence
صمت دير قوسبا
Silence is medicine.
The monastery in Kousba has offered it for centuries. I manage the retreat now, helping people find what noise stole.
Then the executive arrives, terrified of quiet.
I'm Sister—no, just Nouhad now—I left the order but stayed.
Fifty-two, retreat manager, body softened by contemplation. I no longer wear a habit. I still hold space.
Bassam Chidiac hasn't been still in forty years.
"I need to turn off."
"That's not how it works."
"Then what do I do?"
"Nothing. That's the point."
He's fifty-four.
Built a logistics empire, destroyed his marriage, his health, his peace. Now he's here, seeking what money can't buy.
"How long?"
"Until you don't ask that question."
He struggles.
Can't sleep, can't stop thinking, can't find the stillness I offer. I watch without intervening—some battles must be fought alone.
"This is impossible—"
"Nothing is impossible. You just haven't surrendered yet."
"Surrender to what?"
"To the silence that's trying to heal you."
One morning, I find him crying.
In the chapel, before dawn. Not from religion—from release.
"Nouhad—"
"I know. Don't explain."
"How did you know?"
"Because I've seen it before. Surrender finally coming."
He changes after that.
Sleeps properly, speaks less, listens more. The monastery works its ancient medicine.
"I'm supposed to leave tomorrow."
"You can leave whenever."
"I don't want to."
"Then stay longer."
"That's not the only reason." He takes my hand. "Inti el sukoun el wahid." You're the only peace.
"I'm just a retreat manager—"
"You're the first person who hasn't wanted anything from me."
The kiss happens in the monastery garden.
Where monks walked for centuries. His mouth on mine is silence deepening.
"Is this sacrilege?"
"I left the order. And even if I hadn't—connection is sacred."
We make love in my small room.
Simple, like the life I've chosen. He undresses me slowly.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Plain. Quiet—"
"Peaceful. Completely peaceful."
He worships me contemplatively.
Every touch a prayer. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Bassam—"
"Let me find silence in you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip simple sheets, gasping. Pleasure like deep meditation—overwhelming, transcendent.
"Ya Allah—"
"Yes. That's the silence."
When he enters me, I feel holy.
We move together in monastery quiet—his body and mine, creating peace.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is contemplation.
We cry out together—sound swallowed by sacred walls. Then silence returns, holding us.
Two years later
Bassam sold his empire.
Lives simply now, helps run the retreat. We're not married—we don't need it.
"Worth the silence?" I ask.
"I found what I was listening for." He holds me in monastery quiet. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For monasteries that heal.
For executives who surrender.
For retreat managers who become refuge.
The End.