Religious freedom is one of the most fundamental of human rights

Host: The evening air hung thick with heat and the smell of wet earth. A mosque’s call to prayer echoed through the narrow alleys of Yogyakarta, winding around old stone walls and flickering lanterns. In a small teahouse near the edge of the city, Jack and Jeeny sat beneath a wooden awning, the rain beginning to fall in soft threads around them.

The light was low, golden, trembling like a memory. On the wall behind them hung a faded portrait of Suharto, watching silently over the room.

Jeeny’s eyes lifted from the newspaper she’d been reading. She read the quote aloud, her voice calm yet deliberate:

“Religious freedom is one of the most fundamental of human rights because religious freedom comes from the dignity of the human being as God's creature.” — Suharto

Jack’s grey eyes flickered; his hand stilled over his cup of tea.

Jack: “Suharto said that, huh? Strange coming from a man who ruled through fear.”
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it matter more — when someone in power acknowledges something higher than power itself.”
Jack: “Or when someone uses the idea of divinity to justify their power.”
Jeeny: “You think that quote’s hypocrisy?”
Jack: “I think it’s irony dressed as virtue.”

Host: A gust of wind stirred the bamboo chimes overhead. Their sound mingled with the rain, a fragile music of tension and memory. Jack leaned forward, his eyes catching the dim light, sharp and tired.

Jack: “Freedom of religion sounds noble — until you realize it’s often just a slogan. Governments praise it while silencing those who worship differently.”
Jeeny: “And yet, even if the words come from a flawed mouth, the truth behind them remains.”
Jack: “Truth spoken by a liar doesn’t cleanse the lie.”
Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it can awaken those who hear it.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the edge of her cup, as if holding on to something fragile — the kind of faith that doesn’t need defending, only understanding.

Jeeny: “Religious freedom isn’t about government. It’s about soul. It’s about recognizing that every human being carries the same divine spark — whether they kneel in a mosque, a temple, or in silence.”
Jack: “You think divinity makes us equal? History doesn’t agree with you.”
Jeeny: “History is full of men who forgot what divinity meant. That’s not proof against faith; it’s proof of what happens when faith becomes control.”
Jack: “You’re mixing metaphysics with politics. I’m talking about the real world — where freedom depends on who holds the guns.”

Host: The rain thickened, the sound of it drowning out the distant prayer. Inside, the air pulsed with an almost sacred quiet.

Jeeny: “Then why do you think people still risk everything to pray? In secret, under threat — even when the law forbids it? Because there’s something inside us that refuses to be owned.”
Jack: “Or maybe because people fear not believing. Religion’s the oldest insurance policy against death.”
Jeeny: “That’s too easy. If fear were the only reason, faith wouldn’t endure through centuries of suffering.”
Jack: “Faith endures because it’s inherited, not questioned. You’re told from birth who your God is, and you cling to it because identity feels safer than uncertainty.”

Host: Jack’s words struck like the echo of thunder, low and deliberate. Jeeny didn’t flinch. Her eyes softened, but her voice hardened — not in anger, but in defense of something sacred.

Jeeny: “You call it inheritance. I call it lineage of hope. Do you know what it means for a mother to whisper a prayer over a child born into war? For a man to bow before dawn, even when his country bans it? That’s not fear, Jack — that’s defiance rooted in dignity.”
Jack: “And yet every religion claims its defiance is divine, even when it kills others for praying differently. Tell me, Jeeny, where’s the dignity in that?”
Jeeny: “There’s no dignity in killing for God. But there is in believing despite the killers.”

Host: The rain softened again, falling in gentle, rhythmic waves. A candle flame between them trembled, casting twin shadows that danced across the table, fusing and separating like two sides of the same truth.

Jack: “So you think freedom of religion comes from God?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because it starts with the human soul — and the soul doesn’t belong to the state.”
Jack: “Then why has every empire tried to own it?”
Jeeny: “Because power fears what it can’t control. Faith is too wild, too personal. The minute a man starts believing he answers to something higher than government, he becomes ungovernable.”
Jack: “That’s exactly why religion scares me. Unchecked belief is as dangerous as unchecked authority.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup, his jawline tense, his eyes distant — as if staring at the ghosts of wars fought in the name of the divine.

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. Religion can become tyranny. But freedom isn’t the absence of belief — it’s the ability to choose it. Even to reject it.”
Jack: “Then why invoke God at all? Why not say freedom comes from humanity itself — from conscience, from reason?”
Jeeny: “Because dignity didn’t start with reason. It started with being. With creation itself. Before we had laws or systems, we had awe. That’s where reverence for life comes from.”
Jack: “Awe doesn’t need religion.”
Jeeny: “No. But religion is awe with direction.”

Host: Her words hung in the humid air, soft but immovable. The candle flame steadied, its light touching her face with an almost ethereal glow. Jack watched her, half-irritated, half-drawn into the gravity of her conviction.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe humanity was made by God.”
Jeeny: “And you sound like you still wish that were true.”
Jack: “I stopped wishing for that a long time ago.”
Jeeny: “No, you didn’t. You just stopped forgiving the ones who misused His name.”

Host: The silence that followed was dense — not empty, but filled with the slow movement of thought. Outside, a group of children ran through the rain, their laughter rising over the distant hum of the city.

Jack: “When I was twelve, I asked my teacher why my friend — a Hindu — wasn’t allowed to pray in school. She told me, ‘Because this is a Muslim nation.’ I remember thinking, if God is one, why are we building fences in His name?”
Jeeny: “That’s the question of every generation, Jack. And the answer isn’t in fences — it’s in seeing God in the face across the fence.”
Jack: “You really think people can do that?”
Jeeny: “They already do. Quietly. Every act of kindness between faiths is a prayer the world doesn’t notice.”

Host: The rain eased into stillness. The smell of wet soil filled the room, grounding everything in a strange serenity. Jack leaned back, his face softening — the first crack in his armor.

Jack: “So Suharto’s right, then. Religious freedom is human dignity.”
Jeeny: “Yes. But only when dignity isn’t selective.”
Jack: “And when faith doesn’t demand obedience.”
Jeeny: “Faith should never demand. It should invite.”

Host: The flame between them flickered once more, then steadied. The rain stopped completely, leaving the world washed, new, almost forgiving.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he meant — or maybe it’s what he should’ve meant.”
Jeeny: “Maybe meaning evolves after the man is gone. Even flawed words can carry truth, Jack, if someone’s willing to live them honestly.”
Jack: “And you? You’d live them?”
Jeeny: “Every day I try.”

Host: Jack nodded, a quiet reverence in his eyes — not belief, but understanding.

Outside, the call to prayer rose again, this time gentler, rolling through the night like a heartbeat. The two sat in silence, their faces touched by its echo — neither converted, neither defeated, both somehow reconciled.

And as the light dimmed, the portrait of Suharto on the wall seemed almost to fade into shadow, leaving behind only the truth that outlived him:
That the freedom to believe — or not — is the deepest act of dignity a human being can offer back to creation itself.