Why muslims?

Why Muslims?

The city was quiet, yet beneath its silence, tension simmered. Adam stood in the courtroom, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden table. His client, Yusuf Khan, a Muslim immigrant, sat beside him—eyes filled with exhaustion, but not defeat.

Yusuf had been accused of a crime he didn’t commit. The evidence was weak, the accusations vague, but the weight of prejudice was heavy. The prosecutor painted him as a “dangerous outsider,” twisting every detail of his life into a narrative of suspicion.

As Adam rose for his closing argument, he scanned the jury—twelve faces that held the power to decide not just Yusuf’s fate, but something far greater.

“Why Muslims?” he asked, his voice steady but firm. “Why is it that when a crime is committed, we ask first about a man’s faith before we ask about the truth? Why, when a Muslim stands accused, is he guilty until proven innocent?”

The room was silent.

“Why do we look at Yusuf and see a stranger, when he has lived among us, worked beside us, and dreamed the same dreams we do? Why do we allow fear to blind us to justice?”

He turned to the jury, his voice rising.

“Yusuf Khan is not on trial for his actions—he is on trial for who he is. And that is not justice. That is fear masquerading as truth. And today, you have a choice: to give in to that fear, or to rise above it.”

The jury deliberated for what felt like an eternity. Then, finally, the verdict came.

“Not guilty.”

A breath Adam hadn’t realized he was holding escaped his lips. Yusuf closed his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer of gratitude.

As they stepped outside, reporters swarmed, cameras flashing. Someone shouted, “Why Muslims?”

Adam paused, then answered, “Because the world needs to ask itself why it keeps demanding that question.”