America needs to understand Islam, because this is the one

Host: The city was still awake, though midnight had long passed. The streets pulsed with light — neon, headlights, reflections trembling in rain puddles. In a small diner on the corner of 125th and Lenox, two figures sat across from one another in a booth worn smooth by time and conversation.

The air smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and the faint electric hum of a jukebox that hadn’t played in years. Outside, the Harlem wind whispered through cracked windows, carrying with it both history and ghosts.

Jack sat with his coat collar up, his grey eyes sharp beneath the dim flicker of the overhead bulb. Jeeny stirred her cup slowly, watching the swirl of cream dissolve like thought into feeling.

Jeeny: “Malcolm X once said, ‘America needs to understand Islam, because this is the one religion that erases from its society the race problem. Throughout my travels in the Muslim world, I have met, talked to, even eaten with people who in America would have been considered “white,” but the “white” attitude had been removed from their minds by the religion of Islam.’”

Her voice carried softly — a reverent echo in a space too small for such a large truth. “He wasn’t just talking about religion, Jack. He was talking about transformation. About the possibility of cleansing a soul poisoned by the illusion of race.”

Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing.

Jack: “Or maybe he was talking about escape. About wanting to find a world where people aren’t broken by history — even if that world only exists in prayer.”

Jeeny: “No. He found that world. He saw it. In Mecca, in the eyes of people who didn’t care about skin. For a man who grew up in America, that was like seeing the moon for the first time and realizing you’ve been blind to light your whole life.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping gently against the diner windows — a rhythm like memory. The neon sign outside flickered, turning Open into pen, like a whispered invitation to thought.

Jack: “You think faith can erase something as deep as racism? As if centuries of prejudice can vanish just because someone says the right prayers in the right direction?”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t erase history, Jack. It reorders it. It gives people a place to stand where hate can’t reach.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But the world’s not that forgiving. I’ve seen religion used to divide as much as unite. You can put people in the same mosque, the same church, the same temple — and still, they’ll find a way to judge each other.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they bring their divisions into faith. Not because faith creates them. What Malcolm saw wasn’t religion corrupted — it was religion pure. The kind that teaches the soul before it teaches the rules.”

Host: A truck rumbled past, shaking the diner slightly. Jack’s cup rattled on the table. He reached for it, steadied it, and took a slow sip. His reflection wavered in the dark coffee — sharp, then blurred.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — the cure for America’s race sickness lies in faith?”

Jeeny: “No. The cure lies in humility. And he found that humility through faith.”

Jack: “Humility doesn’t sell, Jeeny. America runs on pride. On competition. On ownership. Even of identity. You really think a country that built itself on division can suddenly dissolve its categories?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about dissolving them. It’s about transcending them. Islam doesn’t say ignore difference. It says equalize it. Imagine — standing shoulder to shoulder, rich and poor, black and white, praying to the same God. No hierarchy, no ‘better than.’ Just human.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glowed with conviction. Jack watched her, torn between skepticism and the ache of wanting to believe. The light above them flickered again, and for a second, their faces shared the same shade — neither black nor white, just human in the half-shadow.

Jack: “Sounds beautiful. But ideals rarely survive contact with people. You can erase the idea of race in a sermon — but not in a system. The world still sees color, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But the world also sees what we choose to show it. And faith — the kind Malcolm found — changes what you carry inside. That’s the start.”

Jack: “And what happens when that faith fades? When the world disappoints again? When the mosque becomes another mirror for ego?”

Jeeny: “Then you rebuild it. That’s the work. Faith isn’t a shelter; it’s a practice. It’s how you remind yourself, over and over, that you don’t own truth — you belong to it.”

Host: The steam from their cups rose between them, ghostlike, curling and vanishing into air. The world outside blurred, rain smudging the edges of light and shadow alike.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s architecture.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Malcolm rebuilt his house from the ground up. The old Malcolm was born in America’s fire — anger, resistance, survival. The new one was born in the silence of prayer. He didn’t stop fighting — he just stopped hating.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when the world finally listens to you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s hardest when it doesn’t.”

Host: The jukebox clicked — a stray current waking a single light. It hummed low, uncertain, like a record remembering its song.

Jeeny: “When he went to Mecca, he saw something America still refuses to understand — that identity isn’t a hierarchy. It’s a shared reflection. When everyone bows in the same direction, you realize the color of your skin can’t change the weight of your soul.”

Jack: “You think that realization can fix centuries of blood?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can start to heal a heart. And every revolution begins in one heart.”

Host: Jack leaned forward now, his hands clasped. His voice softened — no longer cynical, just tired.

Jack: “I wish I could believe that. But every time I turn on the news, I see people using God to justify cruelty. I see division growing, not fading.”

Jeeny: “That’s not God’s fault, Jack. That’s ours. We keep mistaking belief for possession. The moment you claim to own God — you’ve already lost Him.”

Host: Outside, the rain slowed. The city glimmered under the streetlights, wet and shimmering, as if it had just been baptized by its own tears.

Jack: “So you think the answer is to pray?”

Jeeny: “No. To see. To look at another human being — any human being — and say, ‘You are me.’ That’s the prayer.”

Jack: “And you think Islam teaches that better than anything else?”

Jeeny: “I think Malcolm saw it there first. Because it was the first place that saw him without a label. That’s what religion should do — not save you, but strip you down to what’s real.”

Host: Jack fell silent. His eyes traced the condensation on the window, the way it caught the streetlight in tiny trembling beads. Then he spoke, slowly:

Jack: “Maybe that’s what America needs — not more laws or slogans. Just a way to see without seeing color.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To see soul before skin.”

Host: She smiled — not triumphantly, but tenderly. The kind of smile that forgives even disbelief. The diner’s clock ticked louder now, counting the quiet between them.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… for all your faith in faith, you still sound like a realist.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who believes humanity still remembers what unity feels like — even if only for a moment, under the same sky.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city’s rhythm softened, as if holding its breath. The neon sign outside flickered fully back to life — OPEN.

In that instant, it was as though Harlem itself exhaled.

The night, for all its darkness, seemed just a little brighter — as if Malcolm’s dream still lingered in the air: that somewhere, beyond the noise and color, the world could still remember what it meant to eat, pray, and breathe together.

And in that fragile silence, Jack and Jeeny sat — not as debaters, not as believers or skeptics, but simply as two souls sharing light.

For a moment, the white attitude — the black pain — the American divide — all faded.
Only the human remained.