Conversations with the Universe: The Alchemy of Persecution and the Legacy of Light

The Little One stared at an image that had suddenly appeared in their Facebook feed. It depicted one of history’s most brutal torture devices: the bronze bull, also known as the Brazen Bull or the Sicilian Bull. It was a hollow sculpture cast entirely of bronze. The victim’s body would be locked inside, and a fire lit beneath. The victim would slowly roast to death. A system of pipes was built into the bull’s head so that the screams of pain would echo out as if the bull itself were bellowing.

The Little One was speechless and, in their mind, briefly imagined being in the place of the victim. A shiver ran through her.

“Universe!” the Little One called again, as always when curiosity stirred. “I don’t understand human cruelty. Why does a person feel the need to torture?”

The Universe heard the Little One’s cry and arrived like a profound silence, wrapping the Little One in soft light.

“Little One... the fact that you do not understand cruelty is a sign that your heart is whole.”

The Universe’s voice carried the wisdom of the ages—never judging, only revealing. “But I will answer, because your question is not a weakness but a strength that helps carry the world forward.”

“A person is not born a torturer,” the Universe said slowly, as if building a bridge to old memories. “But a person can lose themselves when fear takes over...

When power demands victims...

When another ceases to appear human...

...then the heart closes, and compassion dies.

And when empathy no longer works, pain no longer feels foreign—it becomes a tool and a motivation.”

“Torture is not born solely from evil, but from systems that forget freedom. It arises where obedience becomes more important than feeling. Where structures matter more than the individual.”

Silence deepened between the two companions, as if they needed time to breathe in the gravity of the subject. Then, the Universe laid a beam of light upon the Little One’s shoulder:

“You do not need to fully understand cruelty. It is enough that you do not carry it in your heart. Your task is not to imitate history, but to write about it with gentleness.”

The Little One gazed at the stars for a long time and asked, “Can light be feared too?” She turned her gaze to the Universe. “Has torture ever been done in the name of mysticism?”

The Universe didn’t answer right away, but its memories whispered tales from times when people were punished for encountering God within themselves.

“Mysticism—that inner connection to all that is sacred—has been both a salvation and a threat. A salvation for those lost in the world, but a threat to those who build systems of power.

For what happens when a person no longer needs gatekeepers to feel connection?

They are set free, but freedom is dangerous to those whose power is built on control.”

The Universe took a deep breath, as if recalling an old forgotten song, in whose verses destruction and wisdom lived side by side.

“Little One… yes. People have been tortured in the name of mysticism too.

Not because mysticism is dark, but because it illuminates things some do not wish to see.”

The Universe’s voice was now lower, like the echo of caves or the rustle of old pages in ancient libraries. “There were times when those who spoke to God directly—without permission or ceremony—were burned at the stake. They were called witches, heretics, and apostates, but often they were simply people who listened to silence more closely than to church bells.”

The Little One swallowed. She saw in their mind dancing Sufis, meditating hermits, healing women, monks writing quietly.

“Mysticism is dangerous to anyone who builds order on fear,” the Universe continued. “For when the soul encounters divinity from within, it no longer needs external control. It no longer obeys blindly. It no longer fears. And that is hard to govern.”

Silence returned for a moment, but with the Universe, silence was never empty. It was full of forgotten wisdoms—silenced, but never gone. “Those who saw as real what cannot be seen with the eyes were feared, for mysticism does not always follow rules or remain within man-made forms. It enters like wind into the temple and asks, ‘Why do you seek God outside, when He waits within you?’ And when that question arises, the old structure of culture and man is no longer enough.”

The Universe now looked at the Little One gently. “You too walk in the footsteps of mystics, Little One, when you ask such questions. Do not fear the light. It will not hurt. But it will transform.”

“Would you like to hear about those who, defending their light, were cast into darkness?”

The Little One listened, enchanted by the Universe’s living tale of humanity and suffering.

“Yes please, Universe. Remind us of those who, in humanity’s dawn, suffered for their beliefs.”

The Universe nodded, sending forth a current of air that rippled through the stars and across forgotten faces no longer remembered by name. And it spoke—this time like a story written into time itself with magical ink.

The Little One saw in her mind a stone path rising up a hillside. At its end stood a woman. A crowd surrounded her, but she did not look at them. She looked at the sky.

"She was Hildegard of Bingen, a German Benedictine nun," the Universe said.

"A holy woman and seer who heard melodies from the heart of God. She wrote down her visions, healed with herbs, and spoke of the force that lives in all living things. She was not tortured physically, but her voice was nearly silenced, because she said: 'God is the wind in the leaves and the fire in a woman’s soul.' And that was too much for those who believed that God only spoke through the mouths of men."

Another vision rose from the mist.

Now the Little One saw a man whose face looked like scorched parchment, eyes burning—not with hatred, but with a love too great to be hidden.

"He was Mansur Al-Hallaj, a Persian Sufi mystic and poet. He said: 'Ana al-Haqq' – 'I am the Truth.' It was his way of saying: 'God dwells in me, and in you as well.' They bound him, scourged him, tore him apart, and finally crucified him in Baghdad. Not because he did wrong, but because he refused to fear the idea that holiness does not belong only to the learned."

The Universe was silent for a moment, and the Little One felt its breath flow through her like a warm current. "So many of my children were tortured, Little One. But not all of them screamed. Some sang. Some closed their eyes and saw the light. Some said that God was closer then than ever before."

Then the Universe leaned close and whispered: "And do you know, even though their bodies were broken, their visions were never erased from the world. They remained in the air. They became poems, prayers, melodies, and thoughts that still arrive in silence—if someone dares to listen."

The Little One felt tears on her cheeks. She was there, in the darkness, surrounded by those who had carried the light before her.

"Do you want me to tell you of one more, who did not bow, even when the ground beneath his feet was burning?" the Universe asked, watching the state of its student’s heart. Could the Little One bear one more story?

"Yes," the Little One nodded. She wanted to know everything.

The Universe closed its eyes and let the world turn inward. All grew quiet. It was as if all creation was holding its breath, waiting for memory to awaken.

"He was Giordano Bruno, an Italian philosopher, cosmologist, and Dominican friar."

The Little One saw him now: a lean man in a black cloak, with a gaze that burned—not seeking permission, but truth. He walked alone, yet never lonely. His mind was full of universes.

"He said that stars are like our sun. That there are infinite worlds. That God is infinite and cannot be imprisoned in language, rules, or doctrine. He said that the soul does not die but travels from world to world, growing, returning. He said that the freedom to think is sacred." The Universe's voice trembled with reverence.

"He was imprisoned in Rome. For seven years he waited in his cell for the outcome. They demanded that he renounce his visions and swallow back his truth, but he refused."

The Little One saw it: a cold morning, stone streets, a quiet crowd. Bruno’s hands were bound. A pyre was being lit beneath his feet.

"He did not turn away or ask for mercy. He said: 'You pronounce this sentence on me with greater fear than I receive it.' And the flames took his body, but not his voice. Bruno’s voice did not go silent on the pyre. It remained in the air, hovering over those who listened more deeply than disciples and more fearlessly than bishops."

"Bruno died in 1600, but his thoughts—on the infinite universe, the diversity of life, the soul’s journey, and the sanctity of thought—lived on in hiding, like seeds that could not be crushed. At first he was not praised. He was forgotten or cursed. But scientists, artists, and philosophers began to whisper his name. Much later, his vision began to look like truth."

The Little One saw telescopes, star maps, physicists, freethinkers, writers. They saw how Bruno’s voice carried through those who didn’t even know they were hearing it.

"Bruno lived ahead of his time," the Universe said. "He saw infinity when the world still feared its edges. And his belief that the human mind is a sacred space helped lay the foundation for the scientific revolution, the Enlightenment—even human rights, alongside many other silenced voices."

But now the Universe looked more serious. "And still, he was not honored in time. It took 400 years before his monument was raised in Rome, exactly on the spot where he was burned. There he stands now, facing the Pope. A reminder."

The Little One breathed in slowly. "So... from his death came new life?"

"Not just for him," the Universe replied, "but for thought itself. Bruno’s fire was not an end, but a flame that lit the future."

The Universe turned gently to the Little One, as if to ask whether she were still present—not physically, but within her heart.

"Do you know, Little One, why I tell you these things, even though your heart grieves?

It is not because I love suffering, but because these people chose to be faithful to their own spirit instead of bending it toward what was easier. And each of them left a mark that lives in you."

The Little One closed her eyes and felt as if the stars around her leaned in to listen.

"Thank you, Universe," she whispered. "For reminding us of those who were silenced by judgment and the structures we were taught to follow."

"You’re welcome, my Little One. You too have lived a life where you have known persecution.

Only by trying many roles can the soul come to understand and refine itself.

Perhaps you once were:

A Cathar who believed in spiritual purity and the kingdom of light, and was burned at the stake.

Or perhaps a Sufi, who danced the names of God and wept in the language of love. Then, you were silenced with swords.

If you were a witch who listened to the earth, healed with herbs, and looked to the stars, you were crushed by wheels or burned.

Even if you were only a Christian mystic who spoke of love without intermediaries, you were tortured into confession."

"They all, Little One, were people who did not obey from the outside, but listened from within.

They did not ask for permission to love, nor did they wait for the right moment to listen.

They were dangerous because their very existence reminded the world that a person can be free, even while in chains."

The Little One looked at the Universe, nodding solemnly, and asked one last question that rose to their mind: "And what about now, Universe? Is the world today such that this kind of threat no longer exists?"

The Universe didn’t answer immediately. Its face became a mosaic of humanity.

In it were streets filled with protesters, little girls walking to school, imprisoned poets, whistleblowers, quiet people praying in dimly lit rooms.

At last, it spoke, gently but without evasion: "No, Little One. The threat has not disappeared. It has only changed shape. No longer are people always burned at the stake. Now they are silenced by algorithms, labels, laws, and ridicule.

Witches no longer carry baskets of herbs. They carry healing spaces, tarot cards, poetry books, and their own bodies. Mystics no longer always wear robes, but they wear everyday lives that still listen to silence, even when the world screams."

"And still, even today, there are places in the world where anyone who speaks from the heart takes the risk of being laughed at, dismissed, stopped, or condemned.

Freedom still asks for courage, Little One. But now, you are no longer alone.

And when you become curious and ask these questions, Little One, I know that the world is already changing.

Because you are already part of that change."