Abhorrence of apartheid is a moral attitude, not a policy.

The night had settled around them, the world outside now quiet, save for the occasional sound of a car passing in the distance. The air was cool, a breeze stirring the leaves of the trees just outside the window. Jack and Jeeny sat in the dimly lit living room, a lamp casting soft shadows on the walls. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the rustle of a distant paper were the only sounds that filled the room. They were far from the noise of the world, yet the weight of the conversation they were about to have felt monumental.

Host: The space between them felt heavy, charged with the significance of the topic, though it was something they had been avoiding for some time. Their gazes met across the room, each aware of the emotional weight this conversation carried. Jeeny broke the silence, her voice calm but resolute.

Jeeny: “I’ve been thinking about something Edward Heath said: ‘Abhorrence of apartheid is a moral attitude, not a policy.’ What do you think of that, Jack? Is abhorrence of something like apartheid more of a moral stance than a political one?”

Jack: His eyes wandered to the window, the faint glow from the streetlights barely visible through the blinds. He let the question hang in the air, his mind racing. “It sounds right to me. But the thing about a moral attitude is that it’s personal, isn’t it? Something you believe deeply. But apartheid isn’t just a belief — it’s a system, a policy that governs how people live, how they interact, how they’re treated. So, doesn’t it have to be both? A moral stance and a political one?”

Jeeny: She leaned forward, her eyes steady on him. “I think the moral part is what drives the political change. Apartheid, like all systems of injustice, begins with a deep moral failing in the hearts of those who uphold it. It’s not just about laws or policies; it’s about how we view the humanity of others. When we say we abhorr apartheid, it’s not because we’re reacting to a political system, but because it’s inherently wrong. It dehumanizes people, strips them of their rights, their dignity. The moral stance has to come first, or the political will to change it will never come.”

Jack: “But the politics—the system—is what keeps it alive. Policies are what enforce it. If people just had the moral will to change things, wouldn’t they have done it already?” His fists clenched slightly, the frustration creeping back into his voice. “We’ve seen moral outrage before, but if it’s not backed by policy, by action, it just stays as a statement. Something people agree on, but don’t act on.”

Jeeny: “That’s where the moral stance comes into play. If we truly abhor something, if it strikes us as fundamentally wrong, that moral conviction has to drive the change. Policies follow public will, but that will comes from a place of understanding the injustice, not just the laws themselves. When enough people reject the immorality of something like apartheid, it forces a shift. Policies eventually change when people’s hearts and minds refuse to accept them anymore.”

Host: The air between them thickened with unspoken thoughts. Jack sat back, his expression a mix of contemplation and doubt. The notion that morality could be the key to policy felt simple but deeply profound. The more he considered it, the clearer it became: the heart of every policy, every system of power, began with the beliefs of the people who held them.

Jack: “But not everyone shares that moral conviction, though, do they? Apartheid isn’t just about what’s wrong; it’s about who has the power to enforce those wrongs. Even if people feel like it’s wrong, doesn’t it still take power to change it?”

Jeeny: “Yes, it takes power, but power is a reflection of collective will. We’ve seen that in history. When people rise together, when they make the moral decision to stand against injustice, things change. Apartheid didn’t change because the government of South Africa decided it was wrong; it changed because the moral stance against it grew too strong to ignore. The political system was forced to act, to change, because people refused to accept its immorality.”

Jack: “So, the moral stance leads to change. Not just the politics, not just the policies. It’s the people who decide, the people who make the choice to say, ‘This is wrong, and we will no longer accept it.’” He paused, his eyes clearer now, the realization slowly taking hold. “I see what you mean. It’s not just about fighting the system; it’s about changing the belief behind it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The morality is the heart of the change. When enough people choose to reject the wrong, to say, ‘This is no longer acceptable,’ that’s when the system starts to crumble. The political can only hold up for so long when the moral argument is too strong to deny.”

Host: The night outside had deepened, but the conversation between them had brought a new kind of clarity. The notion that true change begins with the heart, with a moral rejection of the wrongs in the world, had settled between them like an unspoken truth.

Jack felt lighter, as if a piece of the world had shifted in a way he hadn’t seen before. The moral stance, the conviction of what was right, had to come first. Only then would the politics of change follow.

Jack: “Maybe it all starts with us, then. With what we choose to accept, what we decide is worth fighting for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The power of change is in our hands, Jack. It always has been.”

Host: The city outside carried on, the hum of life continuing, but inside, in that quiet space between them, something had shifted. The idea that morality could lead the way in shaping the future was no longer just a thought, but something they both saw as the starting point for all real change.

And for the first time, the journey toward breaking the cycle of injustice seemed not just possible, but inevitable.

The night wrapped around them, full of possibilities.