“Painters know exactly what to do with their colors,” Dr. William began, his voice calm, almost liturgical. “They blend two primaries to discover a third. Mix black with white, and you get grey. Depending on the proportions, the grey leans toward darkness or toward light.”

“Artists tend to use white and its kin to depict affection, fraternity, peace. They turn to black—and all its shades—to speak of conflict, war, cruelty. When tyrants rule the earth—those who trample universal moral values for the sake of their own gain—painters dip their brushes in black. And later, when justice or mercy regains dominion, they dip again, this time in white. Perhaps they must use excessive amounts of white, but in the end, they can bury the darkness beneath it and make the canvas clean again.”

“If only life worked that way,” William sighed. “If hearts turned dark because a man deceived a customer, or beat his spouse, or neglected his own child, or watched the slaughter of civilians with indifference—if such hearts could be purified with a single word, a single apology, a single repentance. But unlike a canvas, human hearts do not fully cleanse. No matter how determined a person may be, the stains of racism, arrogance, deceit—they do not entirely disappear.”

“And worse,” he continued, “the canvas before us—the age we live in—is the twenty-first century. A single gust of toxic wind can turn a soul leaning toward white back to black. Thus, idealists must search for strength not outside themselves, but within—the seeds of goodness they were born with.”

He paused, letting the metaphor linger like a brushstroke that refused to dry.

That was how Dr. William opened: with a long, meditative prelude, painting the world as both a gallery of cruelty and a workshop of redemption.

The doctor, one of the leading neurosurgeons in the country—perhaps in the world—was renowned for his countless scientific papers, the surgeries he performed, the patients he saved, and his research and experiments into how the brain works. He was also known for his interest in matters far beyond his field. From the rescue work he carried out with activist friends to return beached dolphins to life, to advocating for the rights of farm animals, he frequently brought humane solutions to public attention.

One of his most recent concerns was the treatment of animals slaughtered for meat. When a farm owner accused him—“Broilers and cattle are raised so that people can have meat: drumsticks, steaks, whatever they need. No one thinks of ‘animal rights’ while eating. And you, posing as activists, bring it up just to polish your image”—the doctor’s reply became memorable.

“Yes, animals are created to serve humanity with their meat, milk, and strength. But that does not give anyone the right to kill them in agony. And they are not devoid of feeling; they possess, in their own way, the instincts of being a parent or offspring. Separate a hen from her chick, and watch how she attacks you. Separate a cow from her calf, and you will hear its suffering in the way it bellows. We are not asking you to close your farm. We are asking for deaths so quick that pain is absent—and not to cut a mother apart before her offspring’s eyes. Protect them from the whip, do not deprive them of food or water, treat their illnesses. In short, prevent unnecessary suffering.”

The farm owners, finding William’s proposal reasonable, took the necessary steps. Perhaps what set William apart from other activists was that his solutions were realistic and applicable. The proposal of some activists—“stop killing animals altogether, eat vegetables instead”—made little sense. After all, even wheat, humanity’s fundamental food, is a living organism that must be ground down to produce flour.

William believed that if the blue planet was ever truly to deserve its name—if blue was ever to become the color of peace—this would only happen when faith-based rivalries and racial identities ceased to be grounds for conflict, and became instead grounds for connection.

His style set him apart. People listened with curiosity, wondering where a speech that began with painters, pigments, light and darkness would ultimately lead.

“No matter how fiercely a person loves goodness—no matter how deeply they wish to build bridges between people and nations—eventually, their fuel can run dry. They crash into a tyrant and shatter, because the heart needs a source, a reservoir, that can pump strength into mind and spirit whenever it falters.

That source has a name: divine revelation.

If humanity has not yet devoured itself, if the human race still refrains from tearing each other apart like beasts, the greatest reason is the command echoed in revelation: ‘Do not kill the innocent.’

Of course, human beings have always carved beauty into self-serving shapes, corrupting its essence. They have used belief as an excuse for war, oppression, and injustice. But that is not a failure of revelation. It is an undeniable fact that, throughout history, certain saboteurs have exploited sacred words to legitimize their own filth.”

William paused. He let the silence gather, let every eye settle on him before he delivered the line he had been circling toward.

“In the twenty-first century, the stage on which the saboteurs perform is the burning of a holy text. But they have forgotten something. The game they played centuries ago—either by disguising their own men as clergy, or by elevating clergy who deified their own egos—will not work now. Because once the printing press was born, millions of copies of revelation entered the world, all speaking the same truth.”

He lifted a hand, as if turning a page only he could see.

“The sacred texts of the Abrahamic religions teach faith and the doing of good. But they never instruct anyone to insult the sacred of others. And they certainly never command the burning of a book that proclaims the same truths, the same virtues, the same path of compassion.

On this continent—dedicated to the exalted Messiah, the herald of love and mercy—such desecration is intolerable.

And the one who mocked another messenger with a cartoon—another guide who proclaimed the same truths—know this: what they drew wounded him as deeply as crucifixion itself. For both of them sang the same song of love and brotherhood, merely set to different melodies.

And the one who stood, staff in hand, defying the pharaohs of his age—kings, dictators, feudal lords by a thousand different names—he composed yet another verse of that same hymn.

The Old Testament reminds its followers: there was a time when you were in Egypt, when pharaohs and tyrants treated you as nothing more than pariahs. Broken beneath inhuman cruelty, the Children of Israel were forced to flee under the leadership of Moses and Aaron. Those who once played the role of the oppressed were warned: do not become pharaohs yourselves. In other words, the scripture cautions all who were once victims—never transform into persecutors. Do not fall into racism, exclusion, or the urge to erase the faith and sanctity of others.

Now tell me—do you see any difference between the Messiah’s declaration, “All are equal; carry my breath of mercy not only here but to every soul in this world,”
and the words of Moses?

Do you find any contradiction between that and the divine revelation given to Muhammad:

‘We created you as nations and tribes so that you may know one another;
superiority belongs only to the righteous.’

And if righteousness is reached through salih deeds—acts of benefit to humanity—
who among us can arrogantly claim, “I am superior”?

Ethnic difference was never a spark meant to ignite war—
but a map drawn so that those living in distant lands might more easily meet.

A Turkish district in Berlin, an Arab quarter in the same city—these are not symbols of separation, but of plurality.”

The revelation continues:

‘For those who fear Allah with sincerity, there are two paradises.’ (55:46)

“It offers us a path to peace on earth. If people truly knew Allah, they would not be racist, arrogant, selfish. It teaches that uttering, “I believe,” is not a ticket to paradise. The first paradise is familiar: the eternal realm granted to those whose record of goodness outweighs their wrongs. But the second—what is it? It is the paradise of this world. A society composed of humble, generous people who refuse to marginalize others—such a society turns the earth into a garden. Divine revelation does not only promise paradise after death—
it promises paradise before it.

Which is why what is being burned today is not merely the sacred text of Muslims—
but the earthly paradise itself. To treat the provocateurs as our own,to accept their narrative,
is to become the thirteenth apostle—the one who betrayed the Messiah.

The spark that burns revelation burns both our paradise in this life and in the next.
Let us not forget that.”

Dr. William had spoken with clarity in parts, yet in other passages his intent remained deliberately elusive. For those committed to world peace and idealism, the ambiguity hardly mattered: when he spoke of “divine revelation,”
did he mean the Qur’an, the Torah, the Gospel—or all of them at once?

To most, this was a trivial question; to others—ignorant or malicious—it was a matter of ideological purity.For them, every quotation had to come exclusively from their own sacred text, as though truth were a proprietary asset, licensed to one community at a time.

William and his circle of activist idealists had a different approach:
they expressed the same moral truth through whichever scripture voiced it best.The press had grown accustomed to William’s style, though critics still repeated the same refrain:

“You’re a doctor. Why are you meddling with religion, scripture, theology?”

His answer was always short, sharp, and irrefutable:

“Faith belongs to no one’s monopoly. And though religions have their official clergy,
every believer who embraces the One God bears responsibilityto illuminate the world with the virtues taught in sacred texts. The work of moral clarity is not reserved for priests, imams, or saints. We speak rightly by listening to their wisdom—not by surrendering truth to them.”

He had named his foundation “The Brave Moon,” inspired by a simple cosmic fact:
the moon reflects the sun’s light, piercing darkness without fear.

In the same way, William and the idealists would confront the architects of chaos head-on.
Yet there was a crucial distinction: their courage did not come from ego, nationalism, or the fever-dream of chosenness— but from a light they believed was given by the Creator,
a light available to every human soul. Idealists, he believed, merely opened their receptors—
their hearts and wills—to receive it.

They never spoke of themselves as “the chosen,” or “God’s dogs,” “God’s sons,” “God’s warriors.” Such language reeked of entitlement, of vanity masquerading as theology.

When Dr. William, president of the Brave Moon Foundation, finished speaking,
the crowd dispersed. Those watching on television returned to their routines. The press lingered, hunting for soundbites the way predators wait for movement in tall grass. And then—Berlin’s symphony of engines and voices was torn apart. A thunderous explosion split the night, followed by another, louder, closer— a concussion that chewed at the ears and sent a wave of primal fear through the streets.

People ran.
Glass shattered.
The world recoiled.

The calm lecture on moral light dissolved into the kind of darkness that no scripture could soften.