A lot of our leadership has become acutely aware of speaking more

Host: The city had sunk into its evening pulse—that strange rhythm between light and dark, where every window carried a flicker of someone’s story. A faint mist hung over the narrow street, softening the glare of passing headlights. Inside a small, nearly empty restaurant, the air hummed with low jazz and the gentle clatter of dishes. The tables were lined with half-empty glasses and scattered napkins, remnants of earlier noise now swallowed by quiet.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the rain-speckled glass, tracing the lines of a passing bus through the fog. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands folded, her expression thoughtful but restless.

A faint reflection of the television behind the counter shimmered on the windowpane—some news anchor talking about protests, free speech, and online hate. The words “responsibility of leadership” flickered across the screen before fading to a commercial.

Jack’s voice broke the quiet, low and rough, like gravel beneath a slow tread.

Jack: “You hear that, Jeeny? Everyone’s talking about balance now—about speaking fairly, being careful. Hamza Yusuf might be right that hate speech is dangerous, but I can’t help wondering: when did we all start walking on eggshells just to sound acceptable?”

Jeeny’s eyes lifted from her cup, the steam rising between them like the last breath of warmth in a cold room.

Jeeny: “Maybe when we realized that words can wound as deeply as weapons. Speech creates worlds, Jack. It can build peace—or burn it.”

Host: The lights above them flickered, casting fleeting shadows across the table. The sound of distant sirens seeped through the cracked window, fading into the rhythm of rain. Jack leaned back in his chair, his face a study in half-light and skepticism.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. People get angry. They lash out. You can’t police emotion. If someone’s furious, they’re bound to say something ugly. It’s human.”

Jeeny: “Anger is human. But so is restraint. The difference between the two makes us civilized. Remember Rwanda in ‘94? Radio broadcasts calling people cockroaches. Just words, Jack. But words that paved the way for genocide.”

Host: Her words fell heavy in the space between them. Jack looked down, his hand tightening around his glass, the ice clinking faintly.

Jack: “That’s an extreme case. You can’t compare every hateful word to genocide.”

Jeeny: “I’m not. I’m saying that language doesn’t just reflect our thoughts—it shapes them. You can’t normalize dehumanization and expect compassion to survive.”

Host: A bus rumbled by outside, the neon reflection sweeping briefly over their faces—Jeeny’s soft with conviction, Jack’s shadowed by doubt.

Jack: “So what, we censor everyone? Delete half the internet? Ban outrage? You can’t expect a society to be emotionally sterilized.”

Jeeny: “Not sterilized—responsible. There’s a difference. Freedom without conscience isn’t freedom, Jack—it’s chaos. When leaders forget that, words become weapons.”

Jack chuckled, though there was no humor in it.

Jack: “Leaders are human too. They make mistakes. They get emotional. If every slip of the tongue gets condemned, who’ll dare to speak at all?”

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice steady but trembling with the weight of memory.

Jeeny: “Speech shapes reality, Jack. When a leader mocks the weak, it gives permission to millions to do the same. Look at what’s happened online—the trolling, the threats, the hatred. It starts with a tone, a phrase, a careless laugh. And then it grows.”

Host: The rain outside softened to a drizzle, its rhythm like a whisper across the window. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching hers, as if testing the sincerity of her fire.

Jack: “But aren’t you afraid of going too far? If everyone has to self-censor, how do we have honest conversations? Anger can be raw, yes—but it can also reveal truths that politeness hides.”

Jeeny: “Honesty isn’t cruelty, Jack. And anger isn’t an excuse for hate. True speech—the kind Hamza Yusuf talks about—is fair not because it’s weak, but because it’s conscious. It’s rooted in justice, not in rage.”

Host: A waiter passed by, setting a candle on their table. The small flame danced between them, catching the light in Jeeny’s eyes, making her words seem almost luminous.

Jack: “So now leaders have to sound like saints? That’s not realistic. The world’s messy, Jeeny. Politics, grief, war—they push people. You can’t demand calm in a storm.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can demand awareness. Even in storms, sailors know which words to shout. Leadership isn’t about perfection—it’s about influence. If your words can move crowds, you have to choose them as if they could also wound them.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped the table—a small, impatient rhythm. Yet behind the gesture, something was softening. He looked out the window, where a homeless man sat under the awning, his sign soaked but legible: “Still human.”

Jack: “You think we can ever truly change that? Human speech has always been violent. Even ancient kings used their words to command blood. Maybe hate is part of the human language.”

Jeeny: “Then evolution must begin with the tongue. Every moral leap humanity’s made started with someone speaking differently. Martin Luther King didn’t raise a weapon. He raised words. And look what they built.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, making the candle flame flicker dangerously close to dying—but it held on. Jeeny’s voice softened, becoming almost prayer-like.

Jeeny: “That’s why leaders must be more aware. Because they’re not just echoing thoughts—they’re writing the script others will live by.”

Jack: “And what about those who hear what they want to hear? You can speak with balance, and someone will still twist it into poison.”

Jeeny: “Then keep speaking with balance anyway. The moral cost of silence is higher than the risk of being misunderstood.”

Host: The words lingered in the air, heavy, truthful. A moment passed before Jack finally spoke, his voice quieter, roughened by reflection.

Jack: “You know, I saw that clip last week—Hamza Yusuf talking about hate speech. What struck me wasn’t just his warning, but his tone. Calm, deliberate. Like he understood that anger itself could infect even those fighting against it.”

Jeeny smiled faintly. “Exactly. It’s not about silencing emotion—it’s about mastering it. You can’t lead with chaos. You have to lead with clarity.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. He looked older now in the dim light—his features softened by thought. The rain had stopped completely, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the faint scratch of the record player in the background.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe fairness in speech isn’t about what we can’t say—it’s about what we choose to say when the easy words are the cruel ones.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of wisdom, Jack. When we realize our words don’t just describe the world—they create it.”

Host: The candle burned lower, its flame now small and steady, a symbol of fragile understanding. Jeeny reached for her cup, and Jack lifted his glass in quiet accord.

Outside, the street glistened with rain and light. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then faded—like an echo of all the voices still learning how to speak in peace.

Jeeny: “We can’t control every heart. But we can guide the tone of our time.”

Jack: “And maybe, in doing that, we guide the heart too.”

Host: The last light of the candle flickered, then steadied—glowing brighter for a brief, defiant second before softening into stillness. And in that glow, both reason and compassion shared the same table, finally speaking the same language.