Mankind must be positively and constructively wary of mankind, of

Host: The rain fell like a slow confession, tapping against the fogged glass of the old café. The city outside was drenched in amber light, reflected in the puddles that broke under the heels of passersby. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of coffee and tired dreams. Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a ceramic cup, his grey eyes fixed on nothing. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair glistening with raindrops, her fingers tracing the steam that rose between them like a ghost.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the quote you sent me this morning, Jack? ‘Mankind must be positively and constructively wary of mankind…’ by Tariq Ramadan. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Jack: “It’s the most honest thing anyone’s ever said about us. People love pretending that humanity is good by default. But every page of history says otherwise.”

Host: The lights from the street flickered, casting their shadows in patterns over the table. A moment of silence hung between them — the kind that feels like a mirror.

Jeeny: “You think we should all just distrust each other? Even our families, our communities, our faith? That’s no way to live, Jack. That’s fear disguised as wisdom.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s not fear — it’s realism. Look around. The worst crimes in history weren’t committed by strangers. They were done by people who believed they were doing good — priests, soldiers, even neighbors. Rwanda, 1994 — it wasn’t some distant evil; it was ordinary people killing the ones they shared dinner with. Ramadan’s right. We should be wary — even of ourselves.”

Jeeny: “But if we live always wary, what’s left of love? Of trust? Isn’t that what keeps us from turning into what we fear?”

Host: The rain intensified, rattling the windowpanes. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes shone with a quiet fire. The conversation moved, alive, dangerous, like a river that forgot where it began.

Jack: “Love is dangerous too. The more you love, the easier it is for someone to break you. Trust too much, and you end up the fool. Ask anyone who’s ever been betrayed — by a partner, a friend, or even their government. To be wary isn’t to reject love. It’s to protect it.”

Jeeny: “That’s such a lonely kind of love, Jack. You guard it so much it never breathes. Yes, people hurt each other. But that’s why we have empathy — it’s what keeps suspicion from turning to poison. If everyone looked at the world the way you do, we’d all lock ourselves inside and call it wisdom.”

Host: The waiter passed by, leaving two refills of coffee that sent ribbons of steam curling upward. Outside, a bus groaned, dragging the sound of wet tires through the street. Jack leaned back, his shoulders tense, his voice low, like a storm waiting for thunder.

Jack: “You talk about empathy as if it’s magic. But empathy doesn’t stop wars, Jeeny. It didn’t stop the Holocaust, or the gulags, or Hiroshima. We keep telling ourselves humanity learns — it doesn’t. We repeat the same horrors, just with better technology.”

Jeeny: “And yet we still rebuild, still love, still hope. That’s the miracle, Jack. Maybe the lesson isn’t to distrust others, but to stay aware — aware of our capacity for cruelty, and choose differently each day. Ramadan didn’t mean to make us suspicious of everyone; he meant to make us responsible.”

Jack: “Responsible? Or naïve? People exploit trust, Jeeny. Every tyrant starts by saying, ‘Trust me, I’ll protect you.’ Every betrayal begins with a handshake.”

Host: The lights in the café flickered, a momentary blackout that plunged them into darkness. The only light came from the neon sign outside — blue, flickering, trembling across Jeeny’s face. Her eyes softened, not from defeat, but from pity.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every act of kindness begins with the same thing — trust. You can’t separate them. We just have to be conscious of the shadow that walks with us. That’s what ‘constructively wary’ means — not to fear each other, but to know what we’re capable of, and still choose compassion.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple. But people don’t choose compassion when they’re desperate. They choose survival. History’s full of examples — pandemics, famines, even politics. When fear rises, morality falls.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our task to rise above fear. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, startling a pigeon from the ledge. Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, a subtle rhythm of restlessness. He looked at her, really looked, as if searching for something he once believed in but had forgotten.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say the same thing — ‘trust people until they give you a reason not to.’ He lost everything that way. His business, his friends, even his home. People took advantage of his kindness, Jeeny. And when he needed them most, they disappeared. That’s when I learned — you survive by keeping your guard up.”

Jeeny: “And did it make you happier? Safer? Or just more alone?”

Host: Her words landed like raindrops on glass — soft, but with weight. Jack stared at his reflection in the window, where the rain blended with his outline, as if the world itself was crying with him.

Jack: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s the price of safety — solitude.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s too high a price. We weren’t made to live behind emotional walls. Ramadan’s warning isn’t a command to isolate; it’s a plea to stay awake. To question, yes — but to do it with love, not fear.”

Jack: “Love’s not enough, Jeeny. You can love someone and still destroy them. Parents love their children and still pass down prejudice, hatred, trauma. Faith communities love their God and still wage wars in His name. Love isn’t the cure — awareness is.”

Jeeny: “Then let love be aware. Let it be cautious without being cruel. Isn’t that the balance he meant — to be wary, but constructive? To keep our eyes open, not our hearts closed?”

Host: The rain softened now, turning into a gentle drizzle, as if the sky itself had calmed. The crowd outside thinned, and the café filled with the muted hum of quiet conversations. The tension between them settled, but the air still vibrated with truth.

Jack: “So you think awareness and love can coexist?”

Jeeny: “They must. Otherwise, we become exactly what we fear — suspicious, isolated, incapable of trust. Wary, yes — but constructively. Like a doctor is wary of infection but still heals. Like a teacher is wary of ignorance but still teaches.”

Jack: “You always turn fear into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because fear without poetry becomes tyranny.”

Host: A smile — faint, but real — tugged at the corner of Jack’s mouth. He looked out the window, where the streetlights shimmered on wet asphalt, and for the first time, his eyes softened — grey, but no longer cold.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Ramadan wasn’t warning us to distrust — just to remain human, even when it’s easier not to.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To be wary of our capacity for harm — but even more, to believe in our capacity for redemption.”

Host: The clock ticked softly. The rain had stopped. The city exhaled a gentle mist. Jack reached across the table, his hand brushing hers. It was a small gesture, but it carried the weight of all that had been spoken — the fragile bridge between fear and faith.

Jack: “Maybe we should be wary, Jeeny. But constructively, as he said — to protect what’s good, not destroy it.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. To watch humanity — not with suspicion, but with responsibility.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, into the wet street, where reflections of light danced on the pavement like silent witnesses. Two souls, seated in the aftermath of rain, had found a shared truth in the trembling glass of the world:
To be wary of mankind, yet still believe in mankind — that is the paradox of being truly human.