Many Muslims put their Islamic faith ahead of their national

Host: The night had settled deep over the city, draping the streets in a velvet quiet. Through the tall windows of a small journalist’s café, the glow of amber lamps fell in soft circles, catching the faint smoke of someone’s forgotten cigarette. The place was almost empty, except for Jack and Jeeny, sitting across from each other at their usual corner table. Between them, a newspaper lay open — an editorial headline in bold black print.

Outside, rain whispered against the glass, and the hum of the world seemed to pause — as if listening.

Jeeny: “Pat Buchanan once said, ‘Many Muslims put their Islamic faith ahead of their national identity and forbid preachers from other religions from coming into their countries to convert their young. Apostasy is treason to Allah. Heresy has no rights.’”

Jack exhaled slowly, the steam from his cup twisting into the air.

Jack: “That’s not a quote — that’s an indictment.”

Jeeny: “Or an observation. Depends on how you hear it.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. That’s the problem — people say things like this as if they’re observations, but they’re shaped like accusations. The language pretends to describe faith, but it’s really about fear.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, like hesitation. Jeeny’s eyes softened, though her voice held steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s also a kernel of truth in it — faith and identity are inseparable for many Muslims. Religion isn’t just a belief system; it’s the architecture of daily life. That’s not fear, Jack. That’s fidelity.”

Jack: “Sure, fidelity — but to what end? When faith becomes state, where does freedom go? Apostasy shouldn’t be treason. Ideas should never be prisons.”

Jeeny: “You’re thinking like a Westerner. Freedom, to you, is the highest value. But to them, unity under faith is freedom — freedom from chaos, from moral decay, from losing the self to the world.”

Host: A brief silence hung between them, heavy but alive. The rain grew louder — not a storm, but a steady insistence. Jack turned the newspaper around to face her.

Jack: “You ever wonder what happens when conviction and compassion start pulling in opposite directions?”

Jeeny: “That’s every religion’s dilemma, isn’t it? Faith promises unity, but it breeds division the moment it becomes law. What begins as devotion turns into defense — and defense, over time, becomes fear.”

Jack: “Fear of losing purity.”

Jeeny: “Fear of losing identity.”

Host: Jeeny took a sip of tea. The movement was calm, deliberate, but her tone carried the weight of centuries.

Jeeny: “Buchanan’s quote sounds like a warning — but not against Islam. Against pluralism. Against coexistence. It’s a mirror reflecting the same anxiety — that maybe our own cultures are losing their moral anchors.”

Jack: “So it’s projection.”

Jeeny: “In a way. When people fear that their own house is shaking, they start pointing to the neighbor’s roof.”

Host: The rain slowed. The café’s old clock ticked loudly, marking each second like a measured breath.

Jack: “You know, I’ve interviewed people who left their faiths — Muslims, Christians, Jews. Every one of them carried a scar. Not just from the rejection of their community, but from the wound of losing a moral compass. Apostasy isn’t just a crime in religious terms — it’s exile from belonging.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When Buchanan says ‘apostasy is treason to Allah,’ he’s describing a worldview where God and community are indistinguishable. To betray faith is to betray your people. That’s why heresy has no rights — not because of cruelty, but because of survival instinct.”

Jack: “Survival that eats its own young.”

Jeeny: “Or protects them — depending on who’s writing the history.”

Host: The lamplight trembled faintly, its reflection glimmering in their eyes — one steel gray, one deep brown.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the West is guilty of the same thing? We just replaced God with ideology. Our heresies are political instead of theological.”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Apostasy still exists — it’s just branded differently. Speak against nationalism, or capitalism, or identity politics — and watch how quickly your name turns to ash.”

Jack: “So we’ve built secular religions — with creeds, taboos, and excommunications.”

Jeeny: “And we still pretend we’re free thinkers.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now, leaving streaks of water glistening on the glass like veins of light.

Jack: “So what’s the answer then? If faith and freedom keep colliding, where do we draw the line?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the line isn’t between faith and freedom, but between reverence and rigidity. Faith without humility becomes tyranny — whether it wears a robe or a suit.”

Jack: “And yet people crave certainty. They’d rather live inside a closed truth than face an open question.”

Jeeny: “Because questions demand courage. Certainty just demands obedience.”

Host: A siren wailed in the distance — faint, dissolving into the hum of the city. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe the tragedy isn’t that people defend their gods too much. Maybe it’s that they stop hearing what those gods were trying to teach — mercy, patience, grace. We protect the symbols but forget the spirit.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Religion becomes architecture — ornate, indestructible — while faith, the living part, fades away.”

Jack: “So, Buchanan saw danger in devotion. But the real danger isn’t devotion — it’s devotion without introspection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith that forbids questions is no longer faith — it’s fear disguised as holiness.”

Host: The café had grown dimmer now, the last customer gone. Only the faint glow of the lamp remained — warm, steady, patient.

Jeeny closed the newspaper and folded it neatly.

Jeeny: “Maybe the only heresy worth committing is compassion — refusing to divide the world into ‘us’ and ‘them.’ Because once you do, everyone becomes a stranger.”

Jack: “And when everyone’s a stranger, there’s no room left for God.”

Host: They sat in silence, two thinkers in a world that preferred shouting. Outside, the clouds parted just enough to let a shard of moonlight fall through the window, landing on the folded newspaper — its black letters suddenly softened, humanized by light.

The camera would have pulled back slowly then — the café small and luminous amid a vast, dark city.

And as the scene faded, Pat Buchanan’s words would echo — reinterpreted, reframed, and redeemed by the quiet dialogue that followed:

Faith, when weaponized, imprisons truth.
But faith, when humbled, becomes the architecture of understanding —
the only structure strong enough to hold both God and difference.