The young people who join extremist groups are clearly suffering

Host:
The train station was nearly empty at this hour, its vast hall echoing with the sound of distant footsteps and the low hum of fluorescent lights. The arrival board flickered intermittently — Paris, Berlin, Damascus, names of cities shimmering like the ghosts of destinations once real.

Through the glass walls, the world beyond was drenched in rain. Neon signs bled their colors into the puddles, creating a reflection that looked less like the city and more like its trembling memory.

Jack sat on a metal bench near platform six, a newspaper folded in his lap, headlines blaring about violence, ideology, and the word that had lost all innocence: extremism. His grey eyes were tired, but sharp, as if staring through the ink to the ache underneath.

Jeeny stood nearby, holding a paper cup of coffee, steam rising like a quiet prayer. She was reading something on her phone — a quote that made her brow furrow, her expression tightening between thought and sadness.

After a moment, she spoke — softly, as if afraid to wake the silence.

Jeeny:
“Tariq Ramadan once said, ‘The young people who join extremist groups are clearly suffering from massive deficiencies in religious knowledge and are often politically gullible (when they are not attempting to salve pangs of conscience by cutting themselves off from a life of delinquency).’”

She set the cup down beside her. “It’s brutal, isn’t it? But painfully true.”

Jack:
He glanced at her, his voice low and rough. “Truth tends to be brutal when it’s about the young. Especially when it’s about the lost.”

Host:
The announcement system crackled overhead — the name of a city mispronounced, a voice devoid of emotion. Somewhere, a train’s horn cut through the station, long and mournful, like a sound searching for meaning.

Jeeny:
“I’ve worked with some of those kids,” she said softly. “You see the pattern. They’re not monsters. They’re just — empty. And someone comes along offering meaning, a flag, a promise of belonging. They confuse conviction with purpose.”

Jack:
He nodded, eyes still on the folded newspaper. “And religion becomes the costume for their confusion. It’s not about faith — it’s about filling the void.”

Jeeny:
“But isn’t that what faith is supposed to do?” she asked. “Fill the void?”

Jack:
He smiled faintly. “Not like that. Faith should reveal the void, not disguise it. When belief becomes armor instead of illumination, it stops saving people and starts using them.”

Host:
A gust of wind swept through the open doors, scattering a few papers across the floor. One fluttered toward Jeeny’s feet — a flyer for a youth rally. “Reclaim Your Future.” The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny:
“Tariq was right,” she said quietly. “They don’t really understand religion — not its depth, not its mercy. They cling to fragments, slogans, verses stripped of context. They’re not rebelling against faith; they’re rebelling against emptiness.”

Jack:
“And politics gives them the script,” he added. “The promise that anger can be holy. That vengeance can be redemption.”

Host:
He picked up the flyer, studied it for a second, then crumpled it absently. The sound of paper crushing seemed louder than the train that roared in moments later, its doors sliding open to no one.

Jeeny:
“I used to think ignorance was the problem,” she said. “That if they just knew more — about their religion, their world — they’d see through it all. But knowledge alone doesn’t save anyone. Not if they don’t feel seen.”

Jack:
He turned toward her. “So what does?”

Jeeny:
“Human connection,” she said. “Someone who listens before preaching. Someone who reminds them that God isn’t a war cry, but a whisper — a mercy.”

Host:
Her voice trembled slightly, though not from weakness — from care. Outside, the rain began to slow, each drop lingering longer before falling. The world seemed to pause with her.

Jack:
“You ever wonder,” he asked, “what drives someone to burn the world just to feel warm?”

Jeeny:
“Loneliness,” she answered instantly. “The kind that eats the soul. The kind that convinces you that destruction is the only way to prove you exist.”

Jack:
He stared at her for a long time. “You really believe anyone can come back from that?”

Jeeny:
Her eyes glistened. “I have to. Because the moment we stop believing redemption is possible — we become as lost as they are.”

Host:
The station lights flickered overhead. The train still waited, doors open, humming like a machine that had learned patience. Neither of them moved.

Jack:
“Funny thing,” he said. “We keep blaming religion for what’s really the failure of the human heart. Religion doesn’t radicalize people — despair does. Faith just gives it a language.”

Jeeny:
She nodded. “Exactly. And that’s why Ramadan’s words sting — because they reveal the hypocrisy of both sides. The extremists misusing faith, and the faithful neglecting to teach it with compassion.”

Jack:
He looked down at the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. “We educate minds, but not souls. That’s how empires fall.”

Jeeny:
“Then maybe it’s time to start teaching differently,” she said. “Not religion as a weapon, not politics as theater — but humanity as shared ground. The kind of knowledge that humbles, not divides.”

Host:
A long pause. The sound of the rain was softer now, its rhythm like a slow, steady heartbeat.

Jack:
He glanced toward the open train doors, the empty seats inside gleaming faintly under fluorescent light. “You think they’ll ever listen?”

Jeeny:
“Not all,” she admitted. “But even one saved from the fire is worth the fight.”

Host:
The camera shifted, following their reflections in the glass — two blurred silhouettes beneath the pale light, surrounded by the symbols of movement yet standing still, as if holding vigil for the world’s fractured youth.

Then, quietly, the train’s doors closed. The engine rumbled, pulling away into the night — a line of light vanishing into the dark, like hope itself refusing to die.

As the echoes faded, Tariq Ramadan’s words lingered — not as indictment, but as plea:

That those who fall into extremism
do not do so from faith,
but from emptiness.

That their violence is not conviction,
but loneliness misunderstood.

And that the first act of saving them
is not to argue, condemn, or preach —
but to understand,
to teach again the language of mercy,
and to remind them
that God was never meant to be an excuse for forgetting humanity.