My family and I were welcomed to Canada more than 40 years ago.

Host:
The evening sky above Montreal was heavy with late autumn — a sky made of cold steel-grey clouds and thin strands of gold light trying to survive. The wind carried with it the smell of maple leaves and wood smoke, and from the narrow streets below, the faint chatter of languages — French, English, Arabic, Punjabi — merged into a kind of living hymn of coexistence.

Inside a small café overlooking the street, the light was warm and honeyed, a contrast to the chill outside. The walls were lined with old photographs of immigrants — smiling families, café workers, musicians, small victories captured in sepia tones.

At a corner table by the window sat Jack, his grey eyes following the silhouettes outside — families huddled together, teenagers laughing in two languages at once, a street musician playing an old Armenian melody on violin.

Across from him sat Jeeny, her brown eyes bright but shadowed by reflection. She turned the page of a small book of essays she had been reading, and then, after a long silence, read aloud, her voice steady but tinged with quiet gravity:

"My family and I were welcomed to Canada more than 40 years ago. We sought and obtained refuge in a liberal, modern, and secular society, and put the ugliness of genocidal religious hate and associated tribalism behind us — or so we thought." — Gad Saad

Jeeny:
(softly)
It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it? That last line — “or so we thought.” You can feel the weight of disappointment behind it.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Yeah. It’s not just nostalgia — it’s disillusionment. The kind that comes when a place you believed was refuge starts to resemble the place you ran from.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
We think we escape hate by crossing borders. But hate isn’t geographic. It travels in people’s hearts, like a shadow they don’t know they carry.

Jack:
(smiling sadly)
And sometimes it hides behind flags, or slogans, or gods — always pretending to be virtue.

Jeeny:
Exactly. He calls it “genocidal religious hate,” but you could replace that with any form of division. It’s all the same disease — just wearing different clothes.

Host:
A bus passed outside, headlights flashing briefly through the window. For a moment, its reflection streaked across the glass, making it look like time itself was moving past their table. Jack took a sip of his coffee, the steam curling up like a small ghost.

Jack:
It’s strange, isn’t it? The irony of escaping one ideology only to find its reflection in another.

Jeeny:
That’s what he means by “or so we thought.” Refuge isn’t just about safety — it’s about belief. You think you’ve found a place that transcends the past, but the past always finds new language.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
You mean tribalism with better branding.

Jeeny:
Exactly. The tribes change their colors, but not their instincts.

Jack:
(leaning back)
It’s the tragedy of human progress — we build skyscrapers with the same hands that once built walls.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
And call them both civilization.

Host:
The rain began, gentle at first — a whisper against the windowpane. People hurried past with umbrellas and bags of groceries, their reflections shimmering in the wet pavement.

Jeeny:
You know, I understand that line deeply. “We sought and obtained refuge.” That’s not just physical — that’s spiritual.

Jack:
You think he means freedom of thought?

Jeeny:
Yes. The right to think without fear, to speak without punishment. That’s the promise of a secular society — to let the human mind belong to itself.

Jack:
And yet, even here, that’s become fragile.

Jeeny:
Because tribalism didn’t vanish; it evolved. It learned to speak the language of politics, of culture, of righteousness.

Jack:
(pausing, then quietly)
Maybe we were naïve to think tolerance would cure hatred.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Tolerance is just the first step. It keeps people alive. But compassion — that’s what keeps humanity alive.

Jack:
And compassion is harder than law.

Jeeny:
It’s rarer, too.

Host:
The light flickered slightly — a small power surge. In that brief shadow, both faces softened, not with fear, but with understanding — the kind that doesn’t need words to exist.

Jeeny:
Do you think true refuge exists anywhere?

Jack:
No. Not as a place. Maybe as a moment — or a person.

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
Like finding peace in a conversation instead of a country.

Jack:
Exactly. Safety isn’t about geography; it’s about humanity.

Jeeny:
(pauses, looking out the window)
I think that’s what he’s mourning — the illusion that civilization guarantees decency.

Jack:
And realizing it doesn’t.

Jeeny:
That realization hurts, doesn’t it?

Jack:
It’s the cost of maturity — personal and collective. Seeing the cracks in what you worshipped.

Jeeny:
And learning to love it anyway.

Host:
The rain thickened, now steady and sure. It traced long silver lines down the glass. The sound of thunder murmured softly over the rooftops, not angry — just old.

Jeeny:
Sometimes I wonder if we ever really outgrow tribalism, or if we just find smarter ways to justify it.

Jack:
We disguise it as identity, or morality, or politics. But it’s still the same instinct — us versus them.

Jeeny:
That’s what’s so haunting about his words. “We thought we put it behind us.” It’s not just about religion. It’s about the limits of enlightenment.

Jack:
We thought education and freedom would evolve us. But intellect doesn’t cancel instinct.

Jeeny:
And fear doesn’t care about philosophy.

Jack:
(softly)
No. It just needs a target.

Jeeny:
And humanity keeps painting new ones.

Host:
Outside, the rain softened, turning to mist. A child ran past the window, splashing in puddles, her laughter cutting through the quiet — innocent, unguarded, timeless.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s what keeps us trying, though — the hope that every generation gets another chance to see differently.

Jack:
And every child is proof that we haven’t given up.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
That’s the beauty of exile — it teaches gratitude. You learn to cherish even the fragile peace.

Jack:
Yeah. And to fight for it — not with weapons, but with awareness.

Jeeny:
That’s the modern struggle, isn’t it? Not to escape hate, but to outgrow it.

Jack:
And to make sure the people who come after us don’t inherit it disguised as heritage.

Jeeny:
(softly)
That’s the real work of civilization.

Host:
The rain stopped. The café’s windows gleamed with droplets that caught the reflections of passing lights — fragments of a city that had learned to live with its contradictions.

Host:
And as Jack and Jeeny sat in the soft silence that followed, Gad Saad’s words lingered in the space between memory and warning — a testament, a confession, a plea:

That refuge is not a place,
but a promise —
one that must be renewed each generation.

That hatred, though ancient,
wears modern faces —
and civilization’s greatest illusion
is thinking we’ve left it behind.

That to truly escape the past,
we must do more than cross borders —
we must cross hearts.

And that perhaps the truest form of freedom
is not safety from others,
but the courage to see them —
fully, equally, and without fear.

The lights flickered once more,
then steadied.

And outside, through the glistening glass,
the city — wounded but alive —
kept shining.