In the West, you have always associated the Islamic faith 100

Host:
The call to prayer drifted through the old Marrakech night, echoing across the rooftops, the sound haunting and tender, like memory itself. In the narrow café beneath the city’s crimson walls, the air shimmered with the scent of mint tea and dust, with the rhythm of distant drums blending into the murmur of conversation.

Jack sat at a small iron table by the open doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, the desert wind tousling his hair. His grey eyes reflected the lanternlight — skeptical, alert. A notebook lay open beside his coffee, half-filled with notes on religion, culture, and all the dangerous misunderstandings between them.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her scarf loose around her neck, her dark eyes glowing with warmth and intelligence. She had that look of someone whose heart had wandered across worlds and learned not to draw borders between them.

Outside, the city pulsed with life — the night market alive with music, spices, and the hum of languages colliding like rivers.

Jeeny: [gently] “Youssou N'Dour once said — ‘In the West, you have always associated the Islamic faith 100 percent with Arab culture. This in itself is a fundamentalist attitude and it is mistaken.’”
Jack: [raising an eyebrow] “That’s a strong accusation — calling Western misunderstanding ‘fundamentalist.’”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “It’s accurate. When you flatten a faith into one culture, you turn diversity into dogma.”
Jack: [sipping his coffee] “Or maybe it’s just ignorance, not ideology.”
Jeeny: [tilting her head] “Ignorance can become ideology when it lasts long enough.”

Host:
The street outside glowed with lanterns, casting long amber shadows across the tiled floor. A cat slipped silently between tables, unseen but present — like the truth, moving where it pleased.

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple? People associate Islam with Arabs because of geography. The birthplace of the Prophet, Mecca, Medina — all in Arabia.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Yes, but that’s origin, not ownership. There are over two billion Muslims in the world, Jack — Indonesians, Africans, Persians, Europeans, Americans. Islam isn’t an ethnicity. It’s a faith. When the West sees it only through the desert lens, it erases entire civilizations.”
Jack: “Maybe. But every religion gets caricatured. The West sees Buddhism as serenity and incense. It’s still shorthand.”
Jeeny: [sharply] “No, it’s reduction. When shorthand becomes stereotype, it stops being harmless. It becomes power.”

Host:
A gust of wind carried sand across the street, rustling the prayer flags strung between two balconies. Somewhere in the distance, the laughter of children mixed with the soft rhythm of drums. The air itself seemed to breathe in rhythm with their words.

Jack: “But why does it matter so much how Islam is perceived? People have their frames. You can’t police every mind.”
Jeeny: [leaning forward] “Because perception shapes policy, Jack. When you associate a global faith with one culture — or worse, one stereotype of that culture — you make a billion people invisible. Look at Africa. Did you know that nearly half of Africa’s Muslims aren’t Arabs? Senegal, Nigeria, Mali — their Islam sings in a different rhythm.”
Jack: [thoughtful] “Sufi Islam.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Exactly. Mystical, musical, deeply local. But to the Western eye, it’s still painted with the same brush — the desert, the veil, the call to prayer echoing from a minaret. It’s beautiful, yes, but incomplete. The faith has many tongues, and we only hear one.”

Host:
Jack tapped his pen against the table, his expression unreadable. The steam from his coffee curled upward, blurring the air like unformed thoughts. Jeeny’s tone softened, but her words carried the quiet force of conviction.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s ironic? The very thing the West calls ‘fundamentalist’ — blind belief — is what it practices in its own assumptions about Islam. It’s a mirror.”
Jack: [half-grinning] “So the West is guilty of its own kind of fundamentalism — intellectual, not religious.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Yes. A fundamentalism of perception. It refuses to evolve its understanding.”
Jack: [sighing] “Maybe it’s just fear. People fear what they can’t categorize.”
Jeeny: “And yet the need to categorize is what blinds them. It’s like trying to capture wind in a box — you end up with emptiness and the illusion of control.”

Host:
The sound of a muezzin calling from a nearby mosque floated in, clear and melodic, a thread of devotion weaving through the city’s restless hum. Both fell silent, listening — not just to the sound, but to the meaning beneath it.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, I grew up thinking Islam was a single thing — one book, one people, one set of rules. That’s how it was taught. Christianity was diverse; Islam was monolithic.”
Jeeny: [softly] “That’s how empire taught it, Jack. Simplicity justifies control. If you make a faith seem alien, it’s easier to mistrust it. It’s the same reason they painted Africa as darkness before the missionaries arrived with light.”
Jack: [grimly] “So ignorance was strategy.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Always. Colonialism didn’t just redraw borders — it rewrote belief.”

Host:
The café owner walked past, humming a soft Wolof tune under his breath — an African melody carrying Arabic words of praise. The harmony lingered in the air like proof of her argument.

Jack: [smiling slightly] “So, Youssou N'Dour — a Senegalese Muslim — speaks against that narrow Western view. Makes sense. He lives at the crossroads: African, Muslim, artist.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. His music is faith in motion — not trapped by geography. He sings of God through rhythm, not rhetoric.”
Jack: “But people always want neat boxes. Arab Islam. African Islam. Asian Islam. It’s how we think.”
Jeeny: [gently] “Then maybe it’s time we think differently. Faith isn’t a passport. It’s a mirror of the soul — shaped by the landscape, yes, but belonging to none.”
Jack: [nodding] “So culture and faith are intertwined, but not identical.”
Jeeny: “Right. The mistake is assuming one defines the other completely.”

Host:
A silence unfolded between them, filled with the hum of the city and the faint smell of cinnamon. The lanternlight flickered, painting them in shades of orange and gold — as if truth itself were somewhere in between.

Jack: “But Jeeny, even Muslims disagree on what Islam is. The world sees Sunnis, Shias, Sufis — faith divided into factions. Maybe the West isn’t entirely wrong to be confused.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Confusion is fine, Jack. Contempt isn’t. You can misunderstand without misrepresenting. But the West rarely stops at confusion — it builds caricature.”
Jack: “You’re saying it’s not just ignorance, but arrogance.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Arrogance disguised as knowledge. To say ‘Islam is Arab’ is to claim expertise over something you haven’t listened to.”
Jack: [thoughtful] “So the real sin isn’t misunderstanding — it’s refusing to learn.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Exactly.”

Host:
A soft breeze drifted in, carrying laughter and the scent of grilled lamb from the market. Jack leaned back, his expression less defensive now, more curious — the skepticism in his eyes giving way to wonder.

Jack: [quietly] “Maybe we all do this — simplify what we don’t understand. Turn complexity into comfort.”
Jeeny: “We do. But simplification becomes prejudice when we mistake it for truth. Islam isn’t a monolith, Jack — it’s a mosaic.”
Jack: [half-smiling] “And every tile tells a story.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Stories that span deserts, jungles, oceans — not one language, but many ways of saying the same prayer.”
Jack: [softly] “La ilaha illallah.”
Jeeny: [surprised] “You know it?”
Jack: “There is no god but God. I learned it once. Didn’t understand it then.”
Jeeny: [smiling gently] “And now?”
Jack: [pausing] “Now I think it’s the most unifying sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Host:
The night deepened, stars scattering above the city like spilled salt. The café began to empty; the last of the customers paid and drifted into the warm dark.

Jeeny gathered her scarf, her voice softer now — not teaching, just sharing.

Jeeny: “That’s what N'Dour was saying. When we confuse a faith with one culture, we build walls around what was meant to connect. Faith is supposed to breathe, to travel, to adapt.”
Jack: [quietly] “And the West caged it in its own misunderstanding.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “But cages rust, Jack. Sooner or later, the song gets out.”
Jack: [smiling] “That’s poetic.”
Jeeny: [smiling back] “So is truth, when it’s finally free.”

Host:
The last candle burned low, its wax pooling like melted gold. Outside, the call to prayer faded into stillness, and the city exhaled — calm, vast, ancient.

Jack looked out toward the horizon — the outline of the Atlas Mountains beneath the stars — and something in his face shifted, as if a wall had quietly fallen inside him.

Jack: [softly] “Maybe we’ve been listening to the wrong voice all along — the one that tells us difference is threat instead of beauty.”
Jeeny: “Then listen differently. Hear the rhythm, not the rhetoric.”
Jack: “And what if I fail?”
Jeeny: [smiling gently] “Then listen again.”

Host:
The lanterns flickered once more, and a single drop of rain fell through the open window, landing between their empty cups.

And in that quiet, the truth of Youssou N'Dour’s words shimmered like light on the surface of dark tea —

that faith is not the property of a people,
nor the monopoly of a land,
but the language of longing — spoken differently,
yet meaning the same in every tongue.

For misunderstanding is not just ignorance;
it is the refusal to listen beyond one’s own echo.

And as the night finally stilled,
the city of many prayers whispered one truth:

that the divine wears many faces,
but only one light.