I was brought up a Muslim and I respect the religion I was born

Host:
The evening light drifted through the old courtyard, falling in soft amber stripes across stone walls that had known both prayer and argument. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and smoke from distant rooftops. Somewhere nearby, a call to prayer echoed faintly — not demanding, not commanding, but simply existing, like a memory that had learned to hum instead of speak.

Jack sat on a low bench, a cup of strong coffee in his hand, the steam curling upward in small, restless swirls. His grey eyes were thoughtful but tired, like a man who had long since stopped fighting but hadn’t yet learned how to rest.

Across from him, Jeeny was seated cross-legged on the ground, her hair loose, her face calm, her hands folded loosely in her lap. Her brown eyes caught the fading light, holding it with a kind of gentle defiance — the look of someone who had faith, not because she had to, but because she couldn’t help it.

A soft breeze moved through the courtyard, lifting the sound of distant laughter and the faint hum of life beyond these walls.

Jack: “‘I was brought up a Muslim and I respect the religion I was born into, but I don't practise it. However, I do believe in thanking God for my happy life,’” he recited slowly, almost reverently. “Laila Rouass said that. You ever think people cling to gratitude because it’s the only part of faith they can handle?”

Host:
His words hung in the air — soft, but pointed. The call to prayer faded. The city sighed.

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t cling to gratitude,” she said quietly. “Maybe gratitude clings to them.”

Jack: “That sounds like something people say when they’re afraid of hypocrisy.”

Jeeny: “Or when they’re learning to make peace with contradiction.”

Host:
A pigeon fluttered past, landing near the fountain, its wings scattering drops of water that caught the dying sunlight.

Jack: “So she respects the faith she doesn’t follow, thanks the God she doesn’t worship. Sounds like confusion wrapped in politeness.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “Sounds like evolution.”

Jack: “You call walking away from your faith evolution?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because maybe the point of belief isn’t to stay the same, but to keep searching.”

Jack: “And what if the search leads you away from God?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were meant to find Him somewhere else.”

Host:
He looked at her, frowning slightly — not in anger, but in thought. The light was dim now, soft and forgiving, touching the edges of their faces like the hand of a quiet truth.

Jack: “You really believe faith can survive outside religion?”

Jeeny: “Of course.”

Jack: “That’s like believing in sunlight without the sun.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s like recognizing that the light still warms you — even if you can’t see where it comes from.”

Host:
A pause. The kind that holds more emotion than words ever could. Jack’s eyes softened. He took a slow sip of his coffee, then set the cup down, his hands trembling slightly.

Jack: “You know, I was raised Catholic. Same story. Guilt was our morning prayer. We said ‘Amen’ to fear.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I thank no one and feel nothing. It’s… cleaner that way.”

Jeeny: “Clean doesn’t always mean whole.”

Jack: “Maybe wholeness is overrated.”

Jeeny: “Maybe emptiness is too.”

Host:
The air between them shifted. A small laugh escaped her, not mocking — just weary, knowing. The sound of a nearby mosque door closing echoed faintly, a soft click that felt like punctuation to a thought neither of them could finish.

Jeeny: “You think thanking God is weakness, don’t you?”

Jack: “No,” he said. “I think it’s contradiction. You can’t pick the gratitude and drop the discipline.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you can. Maybe gratitude is the discipline.”

Jack: “Explain.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the hardest practice of all — being thankful when no one’s forcing you to be. That’s not borrowed faith, Jack. That’s chosen faith.”

Host:
Her voice softened to a whisper. The fountain’s water reflected light in small, trembling patterns that danced across the walls.

Jack: “So what — she thanks God for a life she built herself?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what God wants — not worship, but recognition. Gratitude without transaction.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough to call it faith?”

Jeeny: “It’s more than enough to call it love.”

Host:
He smiled then — small, reluctant, almost broken. The kind of smile born not of agreement, but of surrender.

Jack: “You always make faith sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It is beautiful. It’s just not always obedient.”

Host:
The sky deepened into indigo. The first faint stars began to pierce through the haze. The city outside buzzed faintly — horns, laughter, footsteps — the music of human contradiction.

Jack: “You ever think we invent belief because we can’t stand randomness?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think we keep it because we can’t stand ungratefulness either.”

Jack: “So gratitude is proof of belief?”

Jeeny: “No. Gratitude is belief’s last breath — the one thing we hold on to when everything else stops making sense.”

Host:
The wind shifted again, carrying the faint sound of a lute being played somewhere down the street — slow, melancholic, sacred.

Jack: “Maybe I envy people like her. People who can walk away without walking empty.”

Jeeny: “That’s because she didn’t leave her faith, Jack. She carried it differently.”

Jack: “And how do you carry yours?”

Jeeny: “In gratitude.”

Host:
The camera would pull back now — the two of them small against the vast, breathing world. The sky stretched infinite, half-dark, half-gold — a mirror of every human heart that had ever tried to balance reverence with doubt.

The call to prayer rose again, faint this time, blending with the hum of traffic and the whisper of wind — the sacred and the ordinary in the same breath.

Jack stood, staring at the horizon, his expression unreadable, his heart, perhaps, slightly less guarded.

Jeeny smiled — quiet, knowing.

Jack: “Maybe that’s enough, huh?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Just saying thank you.”

Jeeny: “It always was.”

Host:
The scene would fade to black as the last echo of the call to prayer met the hum of a restless city — and for one fleeting moment, faith, doubt, and gratitude all spoke the same language.

Because sometimes, the truest religion is not what you follow, but what you feel grateful for.