I think it's been hard for people to understand how Islam can be

Host: The café was quiet except for the soft hum of rain outside and the low murmur of jazz from an old radio behind the counter. A single lamp flickered over the corner table where Jack and Jeeny sat, their faces half-lit, half-hidden. Between them, a thin trail of steam rose from untouched coffee cups, spiraling like something sacred — or lost.

The television above the bar played a muted news segment. The headline flashed: “Religious Extremism: Faith or Fanaticism?” A familiar quote scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"I think it's been hard for people to understand how Islam can be a good religion, and yet the Islamists are evil. Those of us who have had experience with Islam understand this, just as we understand the difference between snake handlers and people going to church on Sunday morning." — P. J. O’Rourke

The soundless faces of politicians argued onscreen. Outside, the rain thickened. The world looked blurred — as if reality itself needed translation.

Jack: “You know, he’s right. People can’t handle nuance anymore. Everything’s either holy or evil — black or white. No middle ground left to stand on.”

Jeeny: (stirring her coffee) “Maybe people just forgot how to see without fear. Fear doesn’t do nuance.”

Jack: “Fear’s rational when bombs go off in markets.”

Jeeny: “And irrational when it condemns millions who had nothing to do with it.”

Jack: “You can’t blame people for being cautious.”

Jeeny: “Caution isn’t the problem. Ignorance dressed up as caution is.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes sharp, his expression caught between frustration and fatigue. Jeeny sat still, her hands folded, her voice steady but trembling beneath its calm. The conversation hung like the rain outside — soft at first, but gathering force.

Jack: “The quote’s honest, though. It’s what most people don’t say out loud. You can believe Islam is a peaceful religion — sure — but when the loudest voices are violent, that’s what the world hears.”

Jeeny: “The loudest voices are always the most broken. But that doesn’t make them the truest.”

Jack: “Still, they define the narrative. You can’t deny that.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t Islam, Jack. Maybe it’s that we’ve let extremists — on all sides — become our storytellers.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the glass. A passerby hurried past, umbrella trembling against the wind. The café door creaked open for a moment, letting in a burst of cold air and the scent of the wet city — the smell of concrete and confusion.

Jack: “You’ve lived in Cairo, haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Three years.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “And it was full of contradiction. Morning prayers echoing over the rooftops. Children playing soccer in the alleys. The same people who fasted at dawn gave their food to strangers by night. Faith wasn’t a weapon there. It was rhythm.”

Jack: “And yet, you can’t deny there are places where that rhythm turns to violence.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But blaming religion for its fanatics is like blaming love for jealousy. The seed’s pure — it’s the soil that gets poisoned.”

Jack: “Then what do you do with poisoned soil? You can’t plant there.”

Jeeny: “You cleanse it — slowly, painfully, patiently. But you don’t burn the whole field.”

Host: Jack exhaled through his nose, the smoke of his unlit cigarette rising only in his imagination. He looked at Jeeny — really looked — as if trying to measure how much of her calm was conviction and how much was hope refusing to die.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe people can separate religion from the monsters who use it.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen both. Once, in a Cairo train station, I met a woman in a hijab who stopped to help an old Christian man who had fallen. She whispered a prayer while she lifted him. When he asked her why she helped him, she said, ‘Because my God told me to see yours.’ That’s Islam too, Jack.”

Jack: (quietly) “And the bombers?”

Jeeny: “That’s pain wearing the mask of God.”

Host: The words landed like slow thunder. Outside, lightning flickered, catching Jeeny’s face in flashes — soft, resolute, unwavering. Jack looked down at his hands, restless, as if they wanted to argue but didn’t know how.

Jack: “You know what frustrates me? It’s not just the extremists. It’s how everyone else talks about them — the media, the politicians, even the so-called liberals. They talk about Islam, not with Muslims.”

Jeeny: “Because talking with requires humility. And fear doesn’t kneel.”

Jack: “Humility’s expensive in a world that profits from outrage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Peace doesn’t sell.”

Jack: “So what do you do? Quote poets? Light candles?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe. Every candle matters in a blackout.”

Jack: “That’s naïve.”

Jeeny: “So is hate, Jack. It just wears better marketing.”

Host: The café door opened again — a young man walked in, soaked, his face pale from the cold. He nodded at them politely before ordering tea. Jack watched him — his beard, his prayer beads. Something flickered behind his eyes — instinct, bias, curiosity.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “See? That moment. Right there. That’s what O’Rourke was talking about — the tension between knowing better and fearing worse.”

Jack: “You can’t unlearn instinct.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can teach it empathy.”

Jack: “And you think empathy works against ideology?”

Jeeny: “Every time. Ideology needs distance. Empathy erases it.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like the world’s further apart than ever?”

Jeeny: “Because we confuse connection with understanding. We share posts, not pain.”

Host: The radio shifted songs — a soft, melancholy tune from the 1970s. The singer’s voice cracked slightly on the high notes. It sounded human — imperfect and whole.

Jeeny leaned forward, her tone gentler now, almost pleading.

Jeeny: “Jack, do you know what the problem really is? People think religion’s the disease. It isn’t. Fear is. Religion’s just the mirror — it reflects whatever’s already inside the human heart.”

Jack: “So what about atheists who kill? Do they blame their gods too?”

Jeeny: “They blame their certainties.”

Jack: (pausing) “That’s… actually fair.”

Jeeny: “See? You don’t need to agree with a faith to respect its humanity. You just need to stop mistaking the screams of the broken for the voice of God.”

Host: A long silence. The rain eased. The city outside exhaled.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes softer now — a rare stillness in the storm of his realism.

Jack: “You know, when I was stationed overseas, I saw both kinds of people — the ones who prayed before killing, and the ones who prayed before feeding us. I couldn’t tell which version was truer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they both were. That’s the point — faith holds multitudes. Every religion’s a mirror of the soul that carries it.”

Jack: “And what about the souls that choose violence?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not faith they follow. Maybe it’s despair.”

Jack: “Despair with scripture.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s the tragedy — not that they kill in the name of God, but that they think God would recognize them while they do it.”

Host: The café had grown quieter. Even the barista seemed to listen now, wiping cups in slow, thoughtful circles. The storm had passed, leaving only the soft hiss of the streetlamps on wet pavement.

Jeeny’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “O’Rourke compared it perfectly — snake handlers and churchgoers. Same faith, different interpretation. The difference isn’t in what’s believed — it’s in what’s done with belief.”

Jack: “So maybe the test of any religion isn’t the prayer. It’s the kindness that follows it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “That’s almost hopeful.”

Jeeny: “Almost?”

Jack: “Hope’s a dangerous luxury for cynics.”

Jeeny: “Then stop being one.”

Host: She smiled — not to persuade him, but because hope was the only language she refused to forget. The city lights danced faintly in her eyes, twin reflections of warmth in a world grown cold.

Jack picked up his coffee at last and took a slow sip. It had gone lukewarm, but the gesture mattered.

Jack: “You know, you’re right. The loudest voices aren’t always the truest. Maybe it’s time we start listening to the quiet ones.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s time we become them.”

Jack: “You think that’ll make a difference?”

Jeeny: “It always does. History just takes a while to notice.”

Host: The last of the storm had cleared. The clouds thinned, and through the café window, a slice of moonlight appeared — fragile, silver, unbroken.

They sat in its glow for a while, not as skeptic and believer, not as debaters, but as two people who’d found truth’s gentler edge — that faith, in any form, only matters when it makes us more human.

And somewhere beyond the rain-soaked glass, the city whispered the quiet miracle they had both, in their own ways, rediscovered:

Faith, when honest, isn’t blind.
It’s brave.