Any government in the world, when facing an armed rebellion, has

Host: The night was carved in two — one half lit by the sterile glow of fluorescent lamps in a dim pressroom, the other swallowed by the darkness outside the compound walls. Rain tapped softly on the windows, the rhythm steady, judicial, as if time itself were rendering a slow verdict.

The room smelled of ink, coffee, and faint gun oil — the scent of both truth and control. A television mounted high on the wall flickered with the replay of a speech, its volume low but heavy with implication.

Two figures stood at the long table, their reflections caught in the black window glass: Jack, arms folded, his eyes sharp as cold steel; and Jeeny, standing near the flickering screen, her hands trembling slightly around a half-empty cup of tea.

The words from the speech scrolled across the bottom of the screen, white letters marching across red:

“Any government in the world, when facing an armed rebellion, has a constitutional, legal, and moral obligation to resist these militants.”
— Omar al-Bashir

Host: The sentence hung in the air like a decree — heavy, deliberate, dressed in the garments of reason, hiding the weight of violence beneath its folds.

Jack: “He’s not wrong,” Jack said finally, his voice low, deliberate. “A government does have that obligation. If it doesn’t defend itself, it collapses. That’s not tyranny — that’s self-preservation.”

Jeeny: “Self-preservation,” she echoed softly. “It always starts with that, doesn’t it? Until the line between defense and destruction disappears.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But this isn’t philosophy, Jeeny — it’s war. When rebels take up arms, they choose that risk. No government can just stand by while its sovereignty burns.”

Jeeny: “And what if the sovereignty itself was built on ashes?”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking the windows like tears sliding down glass. In the faint reflection, Jack’s face looked carved from marble — stoic, controlled. Jeeny’s was softer, alive with the storm behind her eyes.

Jeeny: “You always side with order, Jack. Even when the order is unjust.”

Jack: “Because order is the foundation of any justice. Without it, there’s only chaos. You can’t build peace on rebellion.”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes rebellion is the only language peace can understand.”

Jack: “You romanticize it. You forget what rebellion looks like up close — blood, fear, children with rifles, cities reduced to silence.”

Jeeny: “And you forget what obedience looks like up close — mass graves, shackled journalists, truth burned in the name of stability.”

Host: The television played on behind them, the speaker’s voice muted but insistent, his hand gestures rigid and precise, as though each word was a bullet being polished.

Jack: “You think you can just overthrow a system overnight and call it liberation? You think power disappears because people scream loud enough? It doesn’t — it just changes hands.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still worth the scream.”

Jack: “You can’t justify anarchy by calling it freedom.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t justify violence by calling it law.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, briefly throwing the room into shadow. The power, like the argument, wavered but didn’t fail.

Jack: “A government’s first duty is to its people. It can’t afford to look weak. Once you let armed groups dictate the law, you’ve lost the country.”

Jeeny: “And what if the government is the armed group? What if the people are the ones being dictated to — at gunpoint?”

Jack: “Then change it — legally. Vote. Protest. Debate.”

Jeeny: “You can’t vote when the ballot box is under the barrel of a gun.”

Jack: “Then you wait. You survive.”

Jeeny: “That’s not survival, Jack. That’s surrender.”

Host: Her voice cracked on the last word — not from anger, but grief. The kind of grief that doesn’t cry, but remembers.

Jack: “You talk like a revolutionary. You think I don’t want change? I do. But not through bullets and banners. Not through more dead kids on either side.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative? Sit quietly while they decide who gets to live? You think the oppressed can afford patience?”

Jack: “They can’t afford extinction.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what they’ll get if they stop fighting.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking time in judgmental beats. Outside, sirens wailed faintly — distant, indistinguishable. The city itself seemed to be holding its breath, listening.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Every tyrant starts with that same sentence — ‘we have a legal obligation to resist.’”

Jack: “Not every tyrant. Some leaders mean it.”

Jeeny: “And how do you tell the difference?”

Jack: “By the results. By what they build after the fight.”

Jeeny: “But when you burn a village to save it, the ashes don’t rebuild themselves.”

Host: Her eyes locked on his — dark meeting gray — the air between them electric, divided by the ghosts of wars neither had fought but both understood.

Jack: “You can’t compare rebellion to justice, Jeeny. Governments aren’t perfect, but they’re accountable to law. Rebels answer to nothing but conviction.”

Jeeny: “Conviction is sometimes the only law left.”

Jack: “That’s chaos.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s desperation. And desperation isn’t chaos — it’s the cry before order is reborn.”

Host: The television behind them flashed with archival footage — columns of smoke, marching soldiers, crowds in the streets. The imagery was old, yet eerily modern. It looked like history replaying itself in real time.

Jack: “You make rebellion sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “Not sacred — human. When people lose everything — their rights, their dignity, their voices — rebellion isn’t a choice. It’s gravity.”

Jack: “And it pulls everyone down.”

Jeeny: “No. It pulls the truth up — even if it has to claw through rubble to get there.”

Host: He looked at her, searching for words, but none came. The rain had slowed outside, replaced by the faint hiss of wet pavement and the dull hum of the air conditioning.

Jack: “You really think morality belongs to rebellion?”

Jeeny: “No. I think morality belongs to those who still feel something when the system stops feeling at all.”

Jack: “And what happens when their rebellion becomes the new regime? When the ones who shouted freedom start writing their own laws of oppression?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else will rise again. The cycle doesn’t end, Jack. But every time it turns, someone gets closer to the truth.”

Host: For a long moment, the room was silent — two shadows framed against the glow of the fading television. The quote lingered onscreen one last time before the screen dimmed to black, its light gone but its weight remaining.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse of the human race,” he said finally, voice quiet, almost weary. “Every side believes it’s fighting for law, for justice, for morality — and all that’s left behind is smoke.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the test of it. If your law leaves only smoke, then maybe it was never law to begin with.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like the aftertaste of truth — bitter, undeniable. Outside, a faint wind rose, stirring the city awake again.

Jack picked up his coat, turning off the lamp. The room fell into shadow, only the outline of their figures visible in the faint light from the hall.

Jeeny: “So, what’s your verdict, counselor? Does a government have a moral obligation to resist?”

Jack: “Maybe it does. But a greater one not to become what it’s resisting.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s the line, isn’t it?”

Jack: “If only it were that easy to see.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — past the dark windows, out into the city’s night, where rain still shimmered on the streets like old guilt. Somewhere, someone would call themselves a patriot, someone else a rebel, and both would believe they were right.

And above it all, the words of Omar al-Bashir would echo, chilling in their certainty —

“Any government, facing rebellion, has a legal and moral obligation to resist.”

Host: But beneath that thunderous decree, a quieter truth would whisper through the rain, from Jeeny’s trembling voice to the heart of the world itself:

“And every government that forgets its people will one day learn —
that rebellion is not the enemy of order.
It’s the memory of justice.”