As a woman thrust on to the political stage and baffled by the

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving behind a city slick with reflections—lights smeared across pavement, voices muted in the humid air. The evening was restless, heavy with the scent of iron and expectation. From the window of a small radio studio overlooking the river, the world seemed distant, muffled by the double-glazed glass.

Inside, the studio lights hummed low. The red ON AIR sign glowed like a warning, or perhaps a confession.
Jack sat behind the microphone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a tangle of notes scattered before him. Across from him sat Jeeny, her dark hair pulled back, her eyes steady, her voice waiting in the silence before the broadcast began.

The producer counted down behind the glass—three, two, one—and pointed.
Jack’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the static.

Jack: “Tonight, we’re talking about power, and the cost of standing in its light. Gina Miller once said that when she was thrust onto the political stage and faced the rage of a nation, Mary Beard’s Women & Power: A Manifesto gave her solidarity and strength.”
He glanced across at Jeeny. “So, Jeeny, here’s the question. Do you really think power is ever kind to women?”

Jeeny: “Power isn’t kind to anyone, Jack. But it’s cruelest to women because it was built without them in mind. Every institution—politics, media, even art—was designed like a fortress with no door for them to enter.”

Host: Her words cut softly, but with an edge honed by lived truth. She leaned closer to the mic, her fingers resting lightly on the table, her voice steady yet trembling somewhere underneath.

Jack looked at her, his eyes sharp but not unkind, like a man testing a truth he didn’t yet believe.

Jack: “That’s a convenient story, isn’t it? The fortress, the exclusion, the victimhood. But the truth is, power doesn’t care about gender. It eats anyone who wants it. Men, women—it doesn’t matter. Step onto that stage, and you’re fair game.”

Jeeny: “Then why do women always bleed first?”

Host: The question hung in the air, charged and still. A flicker of movement from behind the glass—one of the interns paused, caught by the gravity of her words. Jack didn’t answer immediately. The silence pressed between them, pulsing with something both personal and political.

Jack: “Because they step onto the stage expecting fairness. Politics isn’t a morality tale, Jeeny—it’s a battlefield. And anyone surprised by the bullets didn’t understand the war.”

Jeeny: “You talk like the violence is natural, inevitable. But that’s the lie power tells to keep itself alive. Mary Beard didn’t write about victims—she wrote about the silencing of women. About how even in ancient Rome, when a woman spoke in public, her voice was treated as noise, not speech. Tell me, Jack, how much has really changed?”

Host: The rain began again, faint, tapping softly on the window, like punctuation marks in their growing argument. Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes reflecting the dull studio light.

Jack: “You’re saying power is male. That’s too simple. History doesn’t belong to men—it belongs to whoever had the nerve to take it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly the problem. Women weren’t taught to take—they were taught to earn. And when they do take, they’re called aggressive. When they speak, they’re shrill. When they lead, they’re ‘unfeminine.’ You call that equality?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose, not in anger, but in conviction—a rhythm like heartbeat and thunder. Jack sat back, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth tightening into something like challenge.

Jack: “I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m saying that’s the world. Power doesn’t rewrite itself because someone asks it to.”

Jeeny: “No—but someone has to start writing back. That’s what Gina Miller did. She didn’t ask for permission to stand up—she did it. And for that, she was vilified, mocked, even threatened. All because she refused to be silent.”

Host: Her hands trembled slightly now, not with fear, but with the weight of memory—of every woman who had been told to smile while being burned. The soundboard glowed faintly in front of them, tiny red and green lights blinking like distant eyes.

Jack: “She was fighting a political system. You make it sound like she was fighting civilization itself.”

Jeeny: “She was. Every woman who steps into power fights not just for a cause but for the right to exist in that space without being diminished. You don’t know what that costs, Jack.”

Jack: “You think men don’t pay costs?”

Jeeny: “Not the same ones. A man fails in politics, and he’s criticized for his ideas. A woman fails, and they attack her face, her voice, her marriage, her womb. Tell me that’s the same.”

Host: The words struck the air like flint against stone—sparks flashing, falling, catching. The studio felt smaller, the oxygen tighter. Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw, silent for a long moment.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe power isn’t neutral after all. Maybe it remembers who it served first.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Power has a memory. And it needs amnesia to evolve. That’s why solidarity matters—why Mary Beard’s words gave Gina Miller strength. Because knowing that your pain isn’t isolated makes it bearable. It makes it political.”

Host: The storm outside grew heavier, the sound now a steady percussion against the glass. Jeeny’s eyes glistened—not from tears, but from the fierceness of belief. Jack watched her, his expression softening, the cynicism in him cracking like plaster in rain.

Jack: “You know, I used to think movements like feminism were just noise. Anger with no direction. But maybe anger’s just the sound truth makes when it’s finally spoken out loud.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Mary Beard said, in her own way—that when women speak publicly, they’re not being loud. They’re reclaiming the right to be heard as equals.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the real revolution. Not tearing down the fortress—but teaching it how to listen.”

Host: The producer gestured—the segment was running over—but neither of them noticed. The studio clock ticked softly in the background, marking time not in seconds, but in steps toward something larger.

Jeeny leaned closer to the mic, her voice calm again, steady as light after lightning.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, sometimes the most radical thing a woman can do is to stop apologizing for taking up space.”

Jack: “And sometimes the most radical thing a man can do is to admit that space was never his to give.”

Host: The red light above them dimmed as the broadcast ended, the studio fading back into silence. Outside, the storm eased, leaving the streets washed clean. The river reflected the last of the city lights—fluid, shifting, alive.

Jack stood, gathering his notes. Jeeny rose too, brushing her hands against her coat, her face thoughtful, proud, and weary in equal measure. For a moment, they said nothing. Then Jack spoke, quietly:

Jack: “Maybe power isn’t about who speaks loudest. Maybe it’s about who refuses to be unheard.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Power begins where silence ends.”

Host: They left the studio, stepping into the newly washed night. The air smelled of ozone and possibility. As they walked toward the river, their reflections moved beside them—two figures, equal in shadow, different in history, bound by the same flickering flame of understanding.

And above the city, the lights of the old world burned on—faltering, fading, but never completely extinguished—while somewhere beneath them, a new kind of power was learning to speak, not in whispers, but in its own enduring, unapologetic voice.