I grew up in a very religious family. I could read the Qu'ran

Host: The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dust, the faint echo of whispered prayers still clinging to the corners of the old library. Light filtered through high arched windows, illuminating motes of dust that swirled like forgotten souls between shelves of leather-bound books.

Jack sat at one of the long wooden tables, a cup of black tea untouched beside him. His grey eyes scanned the worn pages of an ancient manuscript with the intensity of someone searching for meaning in what no longer spoke his language. Across from him, Jeeny traced her fingers over the Arabic script of a small, beautifully aged Qur’an, its gold ink still glimmering faintly after decades of touch and reverence.

Outside, the call to prayer drifted from a nearby mosque — soft, haunting, timeless.

Jeeny looked up first. “Akhmad Kadyrov once said, ‘I grew up in a very religious family. I could read the Qur’an easily at the age of five.’”

Her voice was reverent — not for the man, but for the memory of a faith learned before understanding.

Jack looked up slowly, closing the book with a soft thud.

Jack: “Five years old. Reading holy words before he could understand what they meant. That’s the problem with religion — it teaches obedience before comprehension.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it teaches reverence before pride.”

Host: The light fell across her face, warm and tender, softening the fire in her eyes. Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly, his shadow stretching across the table like a question without an answer.

Jack: “You think that’s a good thing? To be taught belief before reason?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes reason comes too late. You can’t reason your way into wonder, Jack. You have to be touched by it first — even if you don’t yet understand.”

Jack: “But wonder without reason breeds fanaticism. Look at history — wars fought in the name of gods children were told to love before they knew why.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those same words have held families together, saved lives, built meaning where there was none. You call it control. I call it inheritance.”

Jack: “Inheritance of fear.”

Jeeny: “Inheritance of belonging.”

Host: The sound of a door creaking echoed through the quiet hall. Dust shimmered in the still air like slow-falling snow.

Jack ran his hand through his hair, his tone softening slightly.

Jack: “You know what I remember about growing up? My father reading physics journals by candlelight, not scripture. He believed truth was in equations, not revelations. I envied people who had faith. They seemed so certain. But that certainty… it scares me.”

Jeeny: “Because you confuse certainty with blindness. Kadyrov learned to read sacred words young, yes — but what if that gave him strength, not chains? The discipline of memorization, the humility of something greater than yourself.”

Jack: “You talk like faith and humility are twins.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they?”

Jack: “No. Humility admits it doesn’t know. Faith insists it does.”

Jeeny: “Faith is not claiming to know — it’s daring to trust.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the cracked window, fluttering the thin pages of the Qur’an Jeeny held open. The delicate script glowed in the sunlight — each stroke an echo of countless hands that had written and read and prayed through centuries.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, my grandmother taught me a verse from the Qur’an — ‘And We have certainly made the Qur’an easy to remember, so is there any who will remember?’ She said it meant that the words would always find a way back to us, even if we lost everything else.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. But beauty doesn’t make it true.”

Jeeny: “And yet beauty is what makes truth bearable.”

Jack: “You think faith makes life beautiful?”

Jeeny: “I think it teaches gratitude — even for pain.”

Jack: “Gratitude for pain? That’s not enlightenment, Jeeny, that’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s acceptance. The kind of peace your father probably never found in his equations.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The sunlight shifted, casting him half in shadow. His fingers drummed the table once, twice, before going still.

Jack: “You’re right. He didn’t find peace. But at least he didn’t worship it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did — just in a different language.”

Host: The air between them grew charged, quiet, alive.

Jeeny’s gaze dropped to the open page in front of her.

Jeeny: “When Kadyrov said he could read the Qur’an at five, I think he meant more than literacy. He meant intimacy. That sacred familiarity you get when the divine enters you before cynicism can chase it out.”

Jack: “Or indoctrination before independence.”

Jeeny: “You always think freedom means questioning everything.”

Jack: “And you think faith means questioning nothing.”

Jeeny: “Faith means questioning and staying anyway.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly, not from weakness, but from remembering. The call to prayer rose again outside — this time closer, deeper. The muezzin’s voice trembled in the air like silk drawn across a blade.

Jack: “You really believe words — old words — can still mean something to a world like this?”

Jeeny: “Only if we let them. Sacredness doesn’t die when belief fades. It dies when attention does.”

Jack: “And what about those who’ve never believed?”

Jeeny: “Then they can still listen. Even silence can be a kind of faith.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. For a moment, the fight left him. He reached across the table, touching the corner of the book lightly — not in reverence, but in respect.

Jack: “I can’t read it, you know. The Arabic. It looks like art more than words.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. The form is part of the meaning. It’s not meant to be conquered — just witnessed.”

Jack: “You make it sound like God is a language.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He is. And every life is an accent.”

Host: The library fell quiet again, the air heavy with thought. Outside, children laughed somewhere far down the street. A world still turning, still believing, still forgetting.

Jack closed his eyes, whispering, “Five years old. To begin life with words meant for eternity…”

Jeeny smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s what faith is — learning eternity before time.”

Host: The light shifted one last time, laying gold across the Qur’an’s open page. Jeeny’s fingers rested on the edge, tender, unguarded. Jack sat back, watching her, his skepticism dulled now into something gentler — curiosity, perhaps even reverence.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I think the reason faith begins young is because children haven’t learned arrogance yet. They can still hold mystery without needing to own it.”

Jack: “And what happens when they grow up?”

Jeeny: “They start trying to explain the apple instead of tasting it.”

Host: The faintest smile touched Jack’s lips. The rain had begun again — soft, rhythmic, ancient.

He looked at Jeeny, then at the sacred text between them, and said quietly:

Jack: “Maybe some words aren’t meant to be understood. Maybe they’re meant to be carried.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like breath. Like prayer.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly, the rain smudging the view of the window, the city fading into a blur of light and faith and memory. Two figures remained — one still searching, one still believing — and between them, the open Qur’an, glowing softly under the dying sun.

And in that fragile, eternal moment, both of them — skeptic and believer alike — seemed to remember how sacred it is simply to read.