Ever since the Crusades, when Christians from western Europe were

Host: The evening sky bled into shades of amber and indigo, and the city below was beginning to glow — its countless lights shimmering like scattered embers of civilization trying to keep warm against the chill of history. Through the wide windows of the café, the world seemed peaceful, deceptive in its calm. But inside, beneath the soft hum of conversation and the scent of roasted coffee, two souls were preparing to unearth the tension that sleeps in the heart of faith.

Jack sat at a small table, his elbows resting on the wood, a half-finished espresso cooling before him. The steam rose and vanished like the ghost of a thought. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea with delicate precision, her eyes thoughtful, her posture calm — the kind of stillness that precedes a storm.

The old radio in the corner played a piece of Arabic oud music — low, melancholic, haunting. Outside, a crescent moon hung above the minarets in the distance.

Jeeny: “Karen Armstrong once said — ‘Ever since the Crusades, when Christians from western Europe were fighting holy wars against Muslims in the Near East, western people have often perceived Islam as a violent and intolerant faith — even though when this prejudice took root Islam had a better record of tolerance than Christianity.’”

Jack: “She’s right. But saying that out loud still makes half the world uncomfortable.”

Host: The air tightened between them. The faint light from the hanging lamps painted long, trembling shadows across the walls.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem — we inherited our discomfort like a relic. We still carry the Crusades in our language, our fears, our headlines.”

Jack: “You make it sound like prejudice has ancestry.”

Jeeny: “It does. Every bias is born somewhere — and the Crusades gave birth to one of the oldest. Western Europe needed an enemy to unify itself, and Islam became the mirror it feared.”

Jack: “And now we call it ‘clash of civilizations,’ as if conflict were destiny instead of choice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Armstrong understood that history doesn’t vanish — it mutates. The fear of the other is just the fear of the reflection we don’t want to face.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes flickering toward the window, watching the reflection of the moon shimmer against the glass. His tone was sharp but weary — the tone of a man who’s read too much history to still believe in innocence.

Jack: “So, tell me, Jeeny — if Islam was more tolerant, why does everyone remember the violence?”

Jeeny: “Because power writes memory, Jack. And Europe won the story. We remember the Crusades as noble, not imperial; as Christian valor, not Christian conquest. The victors always edit God’s script.”

Jack: “And the vanquished inherit the blame.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The irony is — during the same centuries Europe was burning heretics, Muslims were translating Aristotle and preserving Greek philosophy. Baghdad’s House of Wisdom flourished while Europe’s libraries turned to ash.”

Jack: “And yet, centuries later, Western civilization still crowned itself as the cradle of enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “Because memory in power is selective. It polishes its saints and buries its contradictions.”

Host: The radio hummed softer now, the melody dissolving into the air. The waiter passed by, placing a small bowl of sugar on their table, his face marked by fatigue and kindness — the kind that comes from living in a world that constantly misunderstands itself.

Jack: “You know, I used to think religion was the problem. That belief itself breeds violence. Then I read Armstrong, and realized — it’s not belief that kills. It’s fear disguised as righteousness.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Fear — and certainty. The most dangerous combination. Every war waged in the name of God was waged by people who couldn’t stand the idea that truth might be shared.”

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? The Crusaders marched thousands of miles for salvation, but never walked an inch into understanding.”

Jeeny: “And we still do that today. We build walls instead of bridges, speak of tolerance like it’s charity, not responsibility. Armstrong’s point wasn’t just historical — it was human. The very faith accused of intolerance once embodied coexistence. Islam’s empires were built on plurality — Jews, Christians, Muslims sharing cities, courts, even marriages.”

Jack: “While Europe was tearing itself apart in the name of purity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But history reversed the lens. The East became barbaric, the West became civilized. That’s the greatest illusion ever constructed — that violence is virtue when we commit it.”

Host: The wind picked up outside, rattling the glass slightly. The café door opened and closed, letting in a rush of cold air. The faint scent of rain drifted in — clean, restless.

Jack: “You know, I once stood in Jerusalem. Near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. You could feel the weight of centuries there — Christians, Muslims, Jews, all walking the same streets, praying to the same silence. And still, you could feel the tension — like ghosts of wars refusing to die.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they never did. Every stone there remembers blood. But Armstrong reminds us — that blood isn’t faith. It’s ego. Faith, in its truest form, is humble. It listens. It coexists.”

Jack: “And yet humanity keeps choosing arrogance over humility.”

Jeeny: “Because humility doesn’t make good headlines.”

Host: The rain began to fall in earnest now — a steady percussion against the windows, as if the sky were washing something away. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes bright with conviction.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I love about Armstrong’s writing? It’s not that she defends religion — it’s that she defends understanding. She asks us to unlearn the myth that faith equals conflict. She reminds us that violence is not sacred — it’s the corruption of the sacred.”

Jack: “She’s asking for empathy in a time that rewards outrage.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But empathy is rebellion now. In a world addicted to division, empathy is the only revolution left.”

Host: Jack’s hands relaxed. He turned his cup slowly, his reflection rippling in the black coffee.

Jack: “Maybe Armstrong’s real message isn’t just about Islam or Christianity. Maybe it’s about memory — and how truth itself becomes a casualty of time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She’s not just a historian — she’s a healer. She takes the wounds of history and says, ‘Look. These are ours. We did this. Now learn.’”

Jack: “But will we?”

Jeeny: “We must. Because the alternative is eternal Crusade — not of swords, but of words. The same arrogance, the same fear — just modern armor.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to mist that clung to the windows like fogged breath. Outside, a lone figure walked past — an elderly man, his coat soaked, his prayer beads visible through the dim light.

Jack watched him go.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think Armstrong’s greatest gift was reminding us that compassion is intelligence — and that forgetting history is the first step to repeating it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the task isn’t to rewrite history — but to re-feel it. To let the past hurt again, until it teaches us tenderness.”

Host: The café fell quiet now. The last notes of the oud faded, leaving behind only the hum of electricity and the sigh of rain.

Jeeny stood, wrapping her scarf. Jack watched her, the weight of thought still heavy on his face.

Jack: “Do you think humanity will ever outgrow its Crusades?”

Jeeny: “Only when we stop believing God belongs to one side.”

Host: She smiled faintly — sad, hopeful — and walked toward the door. Jack remained seated, looking at the window, where the rain distorted the reflection of the crescent moon, making it look almost whole.

As the door closed behind her, the camera lingered on that image — the broken moon appearing complete, the illusion of unity shimmering in water and glass.

And then, softly, like a prayer whispered into silence, Armstrong’s truth resounded through the scene:

that the greatest war ever fought
is not between religions,
but between memory and understanding —
between what we inherit
and what we choose to learn anew.

Host: The rain slowed.
The city exhaled.
And for one fragile moment, the world felt capable — not of perfection, but of peace.