Muslims must believe that all power, success and victory comes

Host:
The dawn was breaking over the desert, slow and deliberate, as if even the sun was bowing before something unseen. The sky shifted from black to indigo, then to a pale gold, spreading over endless dunes that seemed to breathe under the first light of day. A lone mosque, simple and white, stood at the edge of the horizon — its minaret catching the rising glow like a finger pointing toward eternity.

The air was still — too still — broken only by the distant call of the muezzin, his voice carrying through the silence like a river of faith winding through an ocean of doubt.

Jack sat on the sand, his hands pressed against the cool earth, his eyes shadowed and contemplative. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, the faint tremor in his hands betraying the inner storm beneath his calm.

Jeeny stood beside him, her silhouette sharp against the morning light. Her hair fluttered in the dry breeze, her eyes steady, reflecting the rising sun. She looked like she belonged there — grounded, reverent, still — a soul that had long since made peace with the mysteries Jack still fought.

Jack: “‘Muslims must believe that all power, success, and victory come from God alone.’” He spoke the words with a strange mixture of respect and defiance. “Abu Bakar Bashir said that. A dangerous man, but even danger can carry truth.”

Host:
The sunlight deepened, gilding the edges of the sand, the mosque, and the faint lines on Jack’s face.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not the words that are dangerous,” she said quietly. “Maybe it’s how people choose to carry them.”

Jack: “You mean faith is harmless until a human touches it?”

Jeeny: “No. I mean faith is pure until ego calls it obedience.”

Host:
He turned his gaze to her — slow, questioning, tired. The light in his grey eyes flickered, a candle wavering between wonder and wariness.

Jack: “So all power, success, victory — they come from God? Then what’s the point of effort? What’s the point of struggle?”

Jeeny: “Struggle is the proof of belief, not the denial of it.”

Jack: “That sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny: “It is surrender. But not to weakness — to trust.”

Jack: “You really think trusting something unseen is strength?”

Jeeny: “Only if you’ve tried controlling everything first.”

Host:
Her words fell softly, like grains of sand slipping through fingers. The wind whispered across the dunes, drawing faint patterns that vanished as soon as they formed — like human plans before divine will.

Jack: “I’ve seen too many people use God as a reason to stop trying. To blame fate instead of facing consequence.”

Jeeny: “Then they misunderstood faith. Submission to God isn’t an excuse to stand still — it’s the courage to keep walking when you don’t control the path.”

Jack: “And if the path leads nowhere?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe nowhere was the point.”

Jack: “You sound like the desert.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s still waiting for rain.”

Host:
A silence followed — vast, sacred. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if bowing before the tension between doubt and devotion.

Jack: “I envy people like you,” he said finally. “People who can give up control and still find peace. When I let go, all I find is fear.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re trying to release things with your mind, not your heart.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “The mind wants guarantees. The heart just wants God.”

Host:
Her voice trembled with sincerity. The light grew stronger now, painting the sand in gold. Jack squinted toward the mosque, where a few early worshippers walked slowly, their robes brushing the dust.

Jack: “You ever question it?”

Jeeny: “Faith?”

Jack: “Yes. The idea that everything — power, victory, success — belongs to something beyond us.”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I question it the way you question the sky — not because I don’t believe it’s there, but because I want to understand its shape.”

Jack: “And what have you found?”

Jeeny: “That I am small. And that smallness, strangely, feels like freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom? How can surrender make you free?”

Jeeny: “Because control is a cage disguised as strength. When you stop believing you’re the source of everything, you start breathing again.”

Host:
The sun rose higher. The heat shimmered against the horizon. The mosque’s dome gleamed like a tear in the desert’s infinite skin.

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful — handing your will to the sky.”

Jeeny: “It’s not beautiful. It’s terrifying. But it’s also honest. When you finally accept that victory doesn’t come from you, you stop fearing defeat.”

Jack: “Because it’s not yours to lose.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
He leaned back, his hands behind him, his gaze rising toward the cloudless heavens. His expression was unreadable — half surrender, half defiance.

Jack: “You think God cares about victories?”

Jeeny: “Not the kind we measure. Not medals, not money, not thrones. The victory that matters is when you conquer yourself.”

Jack: “You mean humility.”

Jeeny: “No. Awareness.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “Of who’s really in charge.”

Host:
A long, quiet moment. The desert shimmered, vast and infinite. Somewhere, a bird rose from a distant dune, cutting across the rising light — one living shape against a sea of stillness.

Jack: “You know, I used to think faith was submission. That it made people small.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does make you small — but small like a seed. You have to disappear before you can grow.”

Host:
He smiled faintly, eyes glistening. The wind brushed past them, soft, cleansing.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve already found your victory.”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped pretending it was mine to find.”

Host:
She stepped forward, the sand whispering beneath her feet, and looked toward the rising sun. Its light fell across her face, and in it, she looked both human and infinite — like someone standing between surrender and strength.

Jack: “So you really believe all power belongs to God.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if it belonged to us, the world would have ended long ago.”

Host:
He laughed quietly — not mocking, not bitter — just a tired exhale of recognition.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe victory is just the illusion we build to hide our dependence.”

Jeeny: “And maybe dependence is the beginning of wisdom.”

Host:
The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures small against the vastness of the desert, the sun rising higher, swallowing the world in light.

The mosque stood silent, eternal, its white dome gleaming against the sky. The muezzin’s call faded into distance — not as command, but as reminder.

And in that endless landscape — half faith, half dust — the truth of Bashir’s words found its quiet echo:

That power is not possession.
That victory is not conquest.
And that everything — strength, grace, and breath —
belongs not to the hand that holds, but to the One that gives.