A writer never knows where or when an idea might strike: An overheard conversation on a bus or in a shop; a detail in a painting glimpsed in a gallery; a line of poetry; or the gait of the person walking in front of you; all can ignite a story. My idea for A Flight of Saints sprang from a newspaper article about a group of nuns who, having fled their Italian convent alleging abuse and overwork, were being taken to court for breach of vows by their Mother Superior.
Having spent some time with nuns in convents, the story got my attention. I once spent time discerning a religious vocation, and I remember someone telling me that of the three vows that a nun makes—poverty, chastity, and obedience—obedience would be the toughest. He was right. Once you’ve lived an essentially free-range life, obedience goes against one’s natural grain. I’m not talking about the interior obedience we all possess, the inherent nature that directs our daily lives to be decent people, but the other kind; the one in which we are told what to do and where to do it. I like to think that I’m pretty good at following the important rules of behaviour, but I don’t like being ordered about, even when it’s asked nicely.
I don’t doubt that many of the nuns and monks I know have from time to time considered ditching their vocation in order to have their own space, their own routine. Religious life is tough. As I found out, being a nun doesn’t involve swanning around a pillared cloister all day with a book of poetry or scripture in your hand, but neither does it involve being on your knees with a bucket of soapy water scrubbing a floor.
Back to the news article. As I read further into the story (and it was a disappointingly brief one as I recall), a host of questions flew up: How bad were the conditions that these nuns were forced to flee? What was the straw that broke the camel’s back? If they conspired to escape as a group, how did they manage it? Many convents operate under strict rules of silence, and in an atmosphere like that you become pretty attuned to one another’s tics and nuances so that it’s almost impossible to hold onto a secret. How did this particular group do it? Outside help? Did they run away in the middle of the night or broad daylight?
Perhaps fleeing a convent is not so unusual. After all, the Church can be a harsh boss. Understandably, those in the thick of it who can’t handle its politics, intrigue, and restrictions must leave it behind. For nuns, it’s even tougher. They are the handmaidens of the Church. I’ve witnessed how the patriarchy expects them to cater their every need, to organise an event and clean up after it. Nuns have, historically, had to weather disdain and criticism both inside and outside the Church. In the past, they were sometimes regarded as witches; today, nuns often have to face off against bully bishops and priests. Take for example these events from just the last fifteen years: A group of Spanish nuns breaks with Rome; US nuns are silenced by their bishop; the Vatican orders a crackdown on “radical” nuns; the Nicaraguan government banishes all nuns from the country. You never hear of monks rebelling or escaping or being banished; perhaps the patriarchy protects its own.
In A Flight of Saints, we witness the Church hierarchy flexing its muscle when Mother Elena is seized by the bishop’s men and whisked from her convent, replaced by cruel, sycophantic Mother Clothilde who knows how to work the system.
And yet, in the 12th century, a convent was the safest place for a woman. They were educated, and taught self-respect and initiative. When my main character Lucia and her fellow novices are subjected to abuse, starvation, and thoughts of suicide, it’s a testament to their early nurturing that the girls don’t entirely fall apart. As strong as their faith is (or was before Mother Clothilde arrived) so is their determination to survive and repudiate the evil flung at them. They have something that can’t be starved or beaten out of them – faith in themselves.
As for those real-life nuns who escaped their Italian convent, I wish I knew what became of them. I did read later that their Superior, Mother Tekla Famiglietti (aka The General, and considered the most powerful woman in Rome), was found guilty of the nuns’ allegations over slave-like conditions, and she was forced into retirement. She died in 2020. But what became of the escapees, what was it like for them, and did they ever return to the convent? No word on them. That would be a story worth knowing.