There is far more misunderstanding of Islam than there is, I

Host: The air in the small tea house was thick with the smell of mint, sugar, and a faint trace of smoke. Outside, the evening sun bled across the skyline, dripping gold over the minarets and the tiled rooftops of the old city. A call to prayer echoed softly in the distance — low, rhythmic, mournful.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other at a wooden table, worn smooth by countless conversations that came before theirs. Between them, two small glasses of sweet tea steamed gently. The world outside moved on — merchants closing their stalls, children chasing a ball through the dust — but here, silence held its own weight.

The quote had come up in the midst of their talk — Annie Besant’s reflection on the misunderstanding of Islam — and it had unsettled the quiet calm between them like a sudden wind stirring the surface of still water.

Jack: “You know, I think Besant was being diplomatic. ‘Misunderstanding’ is too soft a word. It’s not just misunderstanding — it’s ignorance, sometimes even convenient ignorance. People don’t want to understand Islam — or any faith that challenges their comfort.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But words matter, Jack. ‘Misunderstanding’ leaves room for hope — for correction, for dialogue. ‘Ignorance’ closes the door before it even opens.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was calm, almost like the stillness after the call to prayer fades. But her eyes carried heat — the kind that comes from conviction, not anger.

Jack: “Hope doesn’t stop prejudice. Look around. A billion people follow a faith that half the world still fears. Every time something happens, the headlines don’t say ‘a man did this’ — they say ‘a Muslim did this.’ That’s not misunderstanding — that’s branding.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but you’re talking about systems, not souls. There’s a difference. The media may brand, but individual people — hearts — can still change. Understanding begins one conversation at a time.”

Host: A faint breeze slipped through the open window, stirring the edge of the curtain. Outside, the sound of bicycles and voices mixed with the evening air.

Jack: “You really think dialogue can undo centuries of bias? Colonial propaganda, wars, politics — all of it built on mistrust. Islam was painted as the ‘other’ for so long that people don’t even realize the brush was dipped in fear.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But do you know what Besant did? She listened. She studied the Quran, spoke to scholars, sat with believers — not to convert, but to comprehend. She found peace in understanding. That’s the point — not to win, but to learn.”

Jack: “Learning doesn’t trend, Jeeny. Fear does. You know how the algorithm works — say ‘terrorist’ and it spreads; say ‘truth’ and no one clicks.”

Host: Jack’s tone was bitter, but not cruel — the voice of a man tired of watching the same cycle spin. His grey eyes caught the reflection of the tealight between them, small and flickering.

Jeeny: “But what if the algorithm isn’t all there is? What if truth still finds its way — one story, one voice at a time? The Prophet himself said, ‘The ink of the scholar is holier than the blood of the martyr.’ Islam was born from knowledge, Jack, not from war.”

Jack: “Then why do we only ever hear about the war?”

Jeeny: “Because peace doesn’t scream. It whispers. And the world has forgotten how to listen.”

Host: Her words lingered in the space between them — soft, but immovable. The light shifted, casting long shadows across the table. For a moment, neither spoke.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who believe compassion can fix geopolitics.”

Jeeny: “I’m not talking about geopolitics. I’m talking about people. When a Christian woman sits with a Muslim man and they share tea — that’s not politics. That’s humanity. And that’s where it begins.”

Host: Jack gave a small, dry laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Jack: “You think humanity’s enough? History would disagree. The Crusades, colonialism, the Partition, 9/11 — all built on the bones of people who believed in something higher.”

Jeeny: “And yet, after every fall, someone still rebuilds. Someone still prays. Someone still forgives. Faith survives what fanaticism destroys.”

Host: The call to prayer returned — the second of the evening — floating through the open window like an echo from another world. Jeeny turned her head slightly toward the sound, her face illuminated by the fading light.

Jack: “I envy that, you know. The way believers can still find beauty in something that’s been so twisted by the world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because faith isn’t about what the world does to it — it’s about what the heart does with it. Islam, at its core, means ‘peace.’ Imagine if people remembered that instead of headlines.”

Jack: “Peace. It’s ironic, isn’t it? A word used to justify both wars and prayers.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The irony isn’t in the word. It’s in the people who forget what it means.”

Host: A soft clinking sound — Jeeny refilling both their glasses of tea. The steam rose again, curling between them like invisible script — fleeting, delicate, unreadable.

Jeeny: “Do you know that when Muslims greet each other, they say As-salamu alaykum — ‘Peace be upon you’? It’s not just a phrase. It’s a prayer for the other’s soul. Every encounter begins with peace — not conquest.”

Jack: “And yet, when others look at that same phrase, they see threat, not tenderness.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Besant meant. People talk about faiths they never took the time to sit with. They define what they fear. They reduce what they refuse to understand.”

Jack: “You really believe that understanding can heal all this division?”

Jeeny: “Not all. But enough. Enough to remind us that faiths aren’t the problem — people are. And people can change.”

Host: The tea house owner, an old man with silver hair and a gentle stoop, passed by their table, humming softly. His eyes crinkled as he smiled — a smile that seemed to carry years of unspoken wisdom.

Jack: “You think he’s heard this conversation a thousand times before?”

Jeeny: “Probably. And he’s wise enough not to interrupt.”

Host: They both laughed — softly, sincerely. The tension dissolved like sugar in the tea.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe understanding begins exactly like this — two people talking across a table instead of shouting across an ocean.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it’s ever been. Not religion against religion — but human against fear.”

Host: Outside, the sky deepened into indigo. The minarets glowed against the fading light, and the sound of evening life returned — footsteps, laughter, the soft shuffle of a world still trying to live together.

Jack looked at Jeeny — not as an opponent in debate, but as a companion in seeking.

Jack: “So, misunderstanding — not ignorance.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because misunderstanding can be undone. It can be met with words, with patience, with tea.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth curving upward. He lifted his glass slightly.

Jack: “Then here’s to that — to peace, to patience, to conversation.”

Jeeny: “And to doing what Besant did — listening before judging.”

Host: The camera would pull back then — through the open window, past the glowing lamps, over the streets of the city now veiled in night. Two figures remain inside, small in the frame but luminous against the dark — their voices a quiet defiance against centuries of noise.

Because understanding — real understanding — begins not with answers, but with the courage to listen.