I was filled with hate and anger. But during my trial, something

Host: The room was bare — a converted warehouse with tall windows and a single bare bulb swaying from the ceiling. The walls were unpainted, the air smelled faintly of rust and dust, and yet there was something alive in the stillness — the kind of quiet that exists only after great noise has passed.

Host: Jack sat near the window, the light from the city bleeding through the glass onto his face, half in shadow, half in reflection. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a wooden pillar, her eyes fixed on him, her posture calm but alert. On the small table between them lay a newspaper, its headline screaming the word “TERROR.” But the conversation that followed was about something deeper — not politics, but redemption.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maajid Nawaz once said, ‘I was filled with hate and anger. But during my trial, something decisive happened: Amnesty International adopted me as a prisoner of conscience, and it was an unbelievable feeling to know that there is someone fighting for you on the outside. Amnesty’s “soft” approach made me seriously consider alternatives to revenge.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “I remember reading that. The man went from radical to reformer. From hate to healing. You don’t see that kind of transformation often.”

Jeeny: “Because most people never get seen when they’re lost. They just get condemned.”

Jack: “And yet someone saw him — a stranger. An organization that believed even his humanity was worth defending.”

Jeeny: “That’s the power of compassion, Jack. It doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. It simply refuses to believe you’re unredeemable.”

Host: The light bulb above them swayed gently, its glow moving across the concrete floor like a pulse.

Jack: “You know what strikes me about that quote? He says ‘soft approach’ like it was a paradox. As if mercy was harder to face than punishment.”

Jeeny: “It is. Punishment confirms your worldview — it tells you the world is cruel, just as you thought. But mercy? Mercy breaks the cycle. It confronts you with your own humanity.”

Jack: “So, compassion is the harder weapon.”

Jeeny: “The only one that disarms both sides.”

Host: A faint sound came from outside — distant traffic, a siren far away. The world kept moving, oblivious to the quiet revolution happening inside this small room.

Jack: “You know, I used to think some people didn’t deserve forgiveness. That certain acts were too far gone.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (pauses) “Now I think maybe forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for the ones who refuse to become what they hate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Nawaz learned that in a cell. He was saved by empathy — not pity, but the courage of someone he’d never meet.”

Jack: “That’s the miracle of it — the idea that someone who doesn’t owe you anything can still fight for your dignity.”

Jeeny: “Because they believe that your humanity and theirs are tied together.”

Jack: (quietly) “And that if one soul rots, the whole world darkens.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the window slightly. Jack stood, walked to the glass, and looked out over the city — a sprawl of light and movement, full of contradictions, full of people all trying to be good in different ways.

Jack: “It makes me wonder — what kind of world do we live in, where we call empathy soft, as if it were weakness?”

Jeeny: “Because it threatens the machinery of hate. If compassion becomes strength, the whole power dynamic collapses. Armies crumble, ideologies lose their anchors.”

Jack: “And prisons start to look like mirrors.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack turned back, his expression more solemn now, eyes dimly lit by reflection.

Jack: “You ever think about what it takes to walk that far — from vengeance to peace?”

Jeeny: “It takes pain. The kind that makes you see you’re not free just because you’re right. Hate imprisons the hater first.”

Jack: “So Amnesty didn’t just fight for his release. They fought for his awakening.”

Jeeny: “Yes. They didn’t open his cell. They opened his soul.”

Jack: “And in return, he opened a path for others.”

Jeeny: “That’s the alchemy of compassion — it multiplies.”

Host: The bulb above them flickered briefly. Jeeny’s face softened as she stepped closer, her voice quieter now, almost confessional.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what ‘soft’ really means. Not weak — but steady. Like water wearing down stone.”

Jack: “Slow, relentless, transformative.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s how you change hearts. Not with fire — but with patience.”

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How one letter from a stranger can do what years of violence couldn’t.”

Jeeny: “Because violence speaks to fear. Compassion speaks to truth. And truth doesn’t shout — it waits.”

Jack: (softly) “It’s hard to fight someone who refuses to hate you.”

Jeeny: “That’s why love always wins in the long run. Because it never stops showing up.”

Host: Outside, the rain began — soft at first, then steadier, tapping against the windows like the heartbeat of forgiveness itself.

Jack: “You think someone like Nawaz ever really forgets that moment — the one where he realized he was still seen as human?”

Jeeny: “No. Moments like that are eternal. They become the new spine of who you are.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what inner peace looks like — not forgetting what broke you, but finally understanding it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Understanding is the final act of forgiveness.”

Host: The camera lingered on the two of them — Jack by the window, Jeeny near the fading light — both of them silhouettes of thought. The rain outside shimmered in streaks, each drop a small confession from the sky.

Host: And through that fragile calm, Maajid Nawaz’s words resonated — not as politics, but as the sound of a soul unchained:

Host: “I was filled with hate and anger. But during my trial, something decisive happened: Amnesty International adopted me as a prisoner of conscience, and it was an unbelievable feeling to know that there is someone fighting for you on the outside. Amnesty’s ‘soft’ approach made me seriously consider alternatives to revenge.”

Host: Because mercy is not the absence of justice — it’s the correction of cruelty.
Because sometimes the most radical act isn’t to fight back, but to forgive.

Host: And in a world obsessed with strength,
perhaps the greatest power of all
is to believe in another’s redemption
before they believe in it themselves.