.Joe the Janissary stood under the moonlit minaret, his eyes sweeping the horizon of a troubled Earth.
He turned to his companions and spoke with the calm gravity of one who had walked among prophets in dreams:
“My companions, because of the Dune movies, the people of Earth now expect a white Imam Mahdi—a blue-eyed messiah from the desert like Timothée Chalamet. The image has been imprinted on the minds of the youth, not by revelation, but by Hollywood.”
The companions nodded silently.
“Some hadiths can be fulfilled,” Joe continued. “The taking of Constantinople, which they now call Istanbul, is not impossible. But it will not be by the sword. It will be by light, by truth, and by repentance. Not conquest—conversion.”
He turned to Jusuf, the quiet scholar-warrior beside him.
Jusuf nodded and spoke:
“The House of Saud, with its golden palaces and oil wealth, dreams that the Mahdi must come from their ‘great house.’ But vanity does not crown a chosen one. The Mahdi comes not from a palace, but from obscurity, from the ashes of the forgotten. He eats dates, not gold.”
Joe lifted his hand, palm open:
“I will not make war on the great houses—neither on the Al Sauds, nor on Hollywood’s Mahdi, Chalamet. Let them play their parts. Islam is a religion of peace, and the sword is for defense, not domination.”
He paused. His voice softened.
“Peace be upon you all, my companions. Let us walk humbly, like Isa ibn Maryam, like the Hidden Imam in ghaybah. Let us shine like the moon—not blazing like the sun, but reflecting the divine light for those lost in the night.”
The wind carried his words across the dunes, over satellites and screens.
And those with ears to hear, heard.