I'm Christian. Growing up in Ethiopia, it's half-Christian and

Host:
The marketplace was alive with the hum of voices and the scent of spices — cardamom, frankincense, coffee roasting slowly over open flames. The sunlight in Addis Ababa had a particular warmth to it — not just light, but life — painting the world in tones of amber and earth.

At a small street café, where the breeze carried the sound of distant prayer calls mingling with church bells, Jack and Jeeny sat under a faded canvas awning. The table between them was old, paint chipped, but covered with tiny porcelain cups and the rich scent of Ethiopian coffee that hung like devotion in the air.

Host:
The city pulsed around them — a symphony of languages, faiths, and faces. In this place, the divine had a thousand accents, and every one of them felt like home.

Jeeny: her voice warm, thoughtful, with a smile touched by memory — “Liya Kebede once said, ‘I’m Christian. Growing up in Ethiopia, it’s half-Christian and half-Muslim. You grow up with Muslim kids. I’m very much aware of their religion.’” She takes a sip of coffee, eyes on the horizon. “That’s what I love about this country. Faith doesn’t divide it — it weaves it.”

Jack: leans back in his chair, watching the swirl of people in the street — “You make it sound like faiths coexist here like colors in a painting. But coexistence isn’t always peace. Sometimes it’s just a polite truce.”

Jeeny: gently, but firm — “Maybe. But even a truce is a bridge, Jack. The world could use a few more of those.”

Host:
The sound of laughter from a group of children nearby drew their attention — two boys, one wearing a cross, the other a small kufi cap, kicking a worn-out soccer ball through the dust. Their shouts mixed with joy, not doctrine.

Jack: watching them — “Those kids don’t care about theology. They care about the ball. Maybe that’s what the rest of us forget.”

Jeeny: smiling softly — “Exactly. You see? They don’t build walls until we teach them how. Kebede’s words remind me — religion isn’t the problem. Ownership is. We keep trying to brand God like a product.”

Jack: picks up his cup, his tone thoughtful but edged with irony — “Maybe we’re all just trying to make God familiar — to put a face to something infinite. So we draw lines. Build names. And then we start defending those names instead of living the meaning.”

Jeeny: leans forward, eyes alight — “But here, the names don’t fight — they harmonize. The Christian chants rise with the call to prayer. Sunday bells meet Friday silence. That’s the kind of awareness Liya meant — not just knowledge, but empathy. The kind that teaches you to see divinity in another person’s practice.”

Host:
A gust of wind passed through the café, lifting napkins, stirring coffee aromas, mixing incense from a nearby stall with the sharp smell of roasted beans. The world felt suddenly like one single breath — many inhaling, one exhaling.

Jack: softly, half to himself — “You talk about faith like it’s a shared language. But what if the words still divide us? What if coexistence is just silence — the kind before misunderstanding starts again?”

Jeeny: with quiet conviction — “Then maybe the answer isn’t silence. It’s listening. Real listening — the kind that doesn’t wait to reply. You can’t share the world if you’re afraid to share your heart.”

Host:
She spoke with that kind of gentle certainty that didn’t challenge him — it disarmed him. Jack’s fingers tapped against his cup, his mind restless, like someone pacing inside himself.

Jack: after a long pause — “You know, I envy that balance. Where I grew up, religion was more like a contest. You were measured by your allegiance — not your kindness. Maybe that’s why I walked away from it all. I was tired of God being a scoreboard.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly — “That’s not faith. That’s fear dressed as piety. But Liya grew up in a different rhythm — where you could pray side by side with someone different and still feel seen by the same sun. Faith like that doesn’t threaten you. It shapes you.”

Host:
A nearby church bell rang, and almost at the same moment, the adhan — the Muslim call to prayer — rose from a mosque down the street. The two sounds collided softly in the air, interlacing, not clashing. The effect was almost orchestral — two devotions, one heartbeat.

Jack: listening quietly, then murmuring — “You ever notice how those sounds blend? Like they’re not arguing, just… answering each other.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly, eyes closed for a moment as if absorbing the harmony — “Exactly. That’s what spiritual awareness sounds like. It’s not about converting, it’s about connecting. You don’t have to pray the same words to bow before the same mystery.”

Host:
The sun dipped lower, light scattering in shards of amber and crimson across the café tables. The vendors were beginning to pack up, the children’s laughter fading down the street, replaced by the soft murmur of evening prayers from both directions.

Jack: quietly — “Maybe faith only becomes dangerous when it forgets humility. When we stop thinking of it as a mirror and start using it as a weapon.”

Jeeny: gently — “Yes. Because humility is what reminds us that truth isn’t owned — it’s shared. You can only reflect it, never possess it.”

Host:
The waiter came by, setting down one last cup of coffee, its steam rising between them like an offering. The street lights flickered on, turning the market dust into gold.

Jack: after a long pause — “So maybe the best religion isn’t the one that promises heaven — it’s the one that teaches you how to live with everyone else on earth.”

Jeeny: smiling softly — “Exactly. And the moment you can see the sacred in someone else’s story — that’s when faith finally grows up.”

Host:
The camera pulls back — the two of them framed in the evening glow, surrounded by the gentle pulse of two faiths breathing the same air. In the distance, both the church bell and the muezzin’s call fade together, until only the heartbeat of the city remains — steady, human, and whole.

Host (closing):
Liya Kebede’s memory of her homeland carries a truth too often forgotten: that faith was never meant to divide — it was meant to deepen our awareness of one another.

In Ethiopia, a child can grow up among churches and mosques, hymns and calls to prayer,
and learn not that there are two gods — but that the same light shines through different windows.

Religion, in its truest form, is not about identity — it is about intimacy.
It teaches us to look across the line, and instead of seeing “them,” to see us.

And as night falls, and Jack and Jeeny lift their final cups to the fading light,
the world hums quietly around them — a reminder that divinity was never the property of one people,
but the shared breath of all who dare to believe, together, in peace.