My faith and my identity as a Muslim - I never saw it as

Host: The sunset bled into the city, washing the streets in hues of deep amber and quiet gold. The air was thick with the scent of grilled bread, coffee, and faint smoke from nearby vendors. Jack and Jeeny sat on a cracked stone bench by the edge of a small square, where the last call to prayer echoed softly from a distant minaret, floating above the hum of the evening crowd.

The quote—Keith Ellison’s words—hung between them like a note in the air that refused to fade:
“My faith and my identity as a Muslim — I never saw it as something that made my job harder. It’s just an aspect of who I am.”

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a faint cigarette ember glowing between his fingers. Jeeny sat beside him, her scarf loosely draped, her eyes lit with that quiet fire of conviction she always carried.

Jack: You know, I admire the confidence in that statement… but I can’t help thinking it’s a bit naïve. The world doesn’t just accept people for who they are, Jeeny. Faith, identity, belief—they always come with a price. Especially in a world obsessed with uniformity.

Jeeny: I don’t think Ellison was saying it’s easy, Jack. He’s saying it doesn’t have to be a burden. There’s a difference. He’s saying your faith, your identity—whatever that is—doesn’t need to make your life harder unless you let the world decide that for you.

Host: The evening wind brushed through the square, stirring a few papers and leaves around their feet. A child’s laughter echoed briefly, then was swallowed by the sound of a passing bus. Jack’s gaze followed it, his eyes dark with thought.

Jack: That sounds noble, but let’s be real. The moment you carry a label, people start defining you by it. Look at history—people have been judged, silenced, even killed for who they are. You can’t just say “it’s an aspect of who I am” and expect the world to leave you alone.

Jeeny: Maybe not. But identity isn’t just what the world sees. It’s what you see when you look in the mirror. That’s the power Ellison is talking about. He’s not pretending the world is fair—he’s refusing to let prejudice define his worth.

Jack: (snorts softly) That’s easier said by someone who’s made it. When you’re successful, your difference becomes a badge. But when you’re struggling, it’s a target.

Jeeny: Maybe. But that’s exactly why it matters to own it. Look at Malala Yousafzai. Her faith, her culture, her identity—those were the very things people said would hold her back. Instead, she turned them into her strength. That’s what Ellison means: identity as a foundation, not a weight.

Host: A moment passed. The call to prayer faded, leaving a long, tranquil echo over the city’s stone walls. The sky deepened into violet, and the lights of small shops flickered one by one, like small hearts igniting against the coming dark.

Jack took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling in the still air before vanishing into the twilight.

Jack: You talk like identity is always a choice. Like we can just decide what parts of ourselves to carry proudly. But sometimes, identity is something the world forces onto you—something you have to defend, not express.

Jeeny: And maybe that’s what makes it powerful. When you defend it, you understand its value. Ellison didn’t say his faith made his life easier—he said it didn’t make it harder. That’s an act of resistance. It’s saying, “I refuse to see my difference as a handicap.”

Jack: (quietly) But the system still does. You can tell yourself it doesn’t, but deep down, people still judge, still whisper, still question.

Jeeny: Yes, but their judgment doesn’t have to become your truth. That’s the difference between shame and acceptance.

Host: Jack’s face softened slightly. The light from a nearby lamp post painted his features in warm bronze. His eyes were thoughtful now, less defensive, as though Jeeny’s words had stirred something buried.

Jack: You sound like you’ve lived this.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Haven’t we all, in some way? I grew up being told I was too “different” to fit in. Too quiet, too foreign, too faithful. And for a while, I believed them. I tried to blend, to erase parts of myself to make others comfortable. But you can’t erase your soul without losing your voice.

Jack: So what changed?

Jeeny: I met people who stopped apologizing for being themselves. People who stood in their faith, their color, their language, and didn’t flinch. That’s how you learn that being different isn’t a defect—it’s a kind of freedom.

Jack: Freedom? That’s a strange word for something that makes you a target.

Jeeny: Maybe. But even a target knows who they are. The real imprisonment is trying to please everyone.

Host: The wind shifted. Somewhere nearby, a small radio began to play a tune—soft, nostalgic, full of quiet melancholy. The city lights reflected in Jeeny’s eyes, and for a brief instant, Jack saw the fire behind her calm—something unyielding, like faith itself.

Jack: (after a pause) You make it sound so simple. Like faith and identity are just... quiet companions walking beside you. But faith—faith can tear nations apart. It can divide families, friends, entire civilizations.

Jeeny: That’s not faith doing that, Jack. That’s fear, wearing faith’s face. True faith—whatever form it takes—doesn’t divide; it anchors. It gives you the courage to be authentic without needing to dominate others.

Jack: So you think if everyone just embraced who they are, the world would be at peace?

Jeeny: Not instantly. But maybe fewer people would be at war with themselves.

Host: A long silence fell. The night deepened, stars beginning to appear, faint and patient. Jack’s cigarette had burned down to its final ash. He let it fall, crushed it gently beneath his boot, and looked out across the square.

Jack: You know, I once worked with a guy—a Muslim immigrant. Brilliant man. But he never talked about his faith. Always downplayed it. Said it made people “comfortable.” I used to think he was smart for doing that. But now I wonder if he was just… tired.

Jeeny: He probably was. It’s exhausting to keep translating yourself into something the world will accept. But the moment you stop hiding, you start breathing.

Jack: (nodding slowly) I think that’s what Ellison meant. Not that it’s easy—but that he refused to see his identity as an obstacle.

Jeeny: Exactly. The world tells you your faith should make you smaller. But he decided it made him whole.

Host: A soft breeze lifted the edge of Jeeny’s scarf. The streetlights flickered as a few passersby murmured goodnight in different languages—Arabic, English, Spanish, fragments of the city’s living mosaic. The night pulsed with a quiet unity, invisible but deeply felt.

Jack: Maybe faith is like that—something that doesn’t make you different from others, just more yourself.

Jeeny: (smiling) Yes. It’s not a barrier; it’s a mirror.

Host: The camera would slowly pull back now, leaving the two of them framed against the city’s glow, two small figures beneath the vast, breathing sky. In the distance, the final echo of the call to prayer lingered—a sound not of division, but of remembrance.

The bench, the light, the silence—everything shimmered with a strange kind of peace.

And though the world outside still buzzed with its many labels, beliefs, and fears, here—just for a moment—two souls sat together in simple, shared truth.