Being told about the effects of climate change is an appeal to

Host: The heat of the African dusk stretched across the red horizon, a trembling mirage of dust and light. The sky burned in amber, as though the sun itself were a wound that refused to heal. Cicadas droned like restless ghosts, and the wind carried the faint scent of dry earth, cracked and aching for rain.

At the edge of a parched village, a makeshift café stood beneath a rusted tin roof. Its wooden sign swung idly in the evening breeze. Inside, Jack sat, his grey eyes reflecting the dying light, a half-empty cup before him. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the glow of the setting sun, her hands resting on the wooden sill, eyes watching the distant plains that once had been green.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… sometimes I think injustice has a face. It’s not just a word. It’s the cracked soil, the empty well, the child coughing under a burning sky.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those campaign ads, Jeeny. Tragic music, slow-motion footage, and a message that makes people cry for two minutes, then go back to their air-conditioned homes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s not an ad when you’re the one living in it. Sigmar Gabriel said something once: Being told about the effects of climate change is an appeal to our reason. But to see that Africans are the hardest hit—when they’ve done almost nothing to cause it—is a glaring injustice. You can’t reason your way around that.”

Host: The wind rattled a loose pane. The sky deepened into purple, the first stars struggling through the heat haze. Jack’s hands curled around his cup, as though seeking comfort in its faint warmth.

Jack: “I don’t deny the facts. But ‘injustice’—that’s a moral term. Nature doesn’t do morals. It doesn’t care who burns the fuel or who pays the price. Drought doesn’t discriminate, Jeeny. It’s not evil. It’s just physics.”

Jeeny: “But the people behind it are. Or at least, they’re responsible. The factories, the endless consumption, the corporations chasing profit—those are human choices. And when those choices destroy lives continents away, that’s not nature. That’s cruelty with a business plan.”

Jack: “Cruelty implies intention. Do you really think some CEO in New York wakes up and says, ‘Let’s make a few million kids in Chad go hungry’? It’s not deliberate. It’s systemic. Nobody’s steering the ship. Everyone’s just rowing faster.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it worse. No villain to fight—just a machine that runs on comfort and denial. But tell me, Jack, does ignorance absolve guilt?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled like a bowstring drawn too tight. Jack looked away, his jawline hard under the fading light. Outside, a herdsman led his thin cattle across the dust, their ribs like lines of poetry written in suffering.

Jack: “So what do you want then? To shut down every factory? Stop every plane? You’d crash the world economy in a week. Billions would suffer then too. You think poverty is bad now? Wait till the lights go out.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want to shut it all down. I just want justice—a rebalancing. The ones who caused the most harm should take the most responsibility. How is it fair that Europe and America built their wealth on carbon, and now Africa pays with drought?”

Jack: “Because that’s how history works. The strong advance, the weak endure. Do you think the Industrial Revolution waited for permission? Every civilization built itself on someone else’s suffering. It’s not justice, it’s evolution.”

Jeeny: “That’s not evolution. That’s exploitation dressed as destiny. When Europeans drew borders across Africa, that was ‘evolution’ too, wasn’t it? When the Congo’s rubber fed Europe’s bicycles, that was ‘progress.’ And now the same pattern repeats—with carbon instead of chains.”

Host: A silence fell. The air thickened. Even the cicadas seemed to pause. The weight of her words hung between them like smoke refusing to fade. Jack’s eyes softened, but his tone remained steel.

Jack: “You’re right about the past. But the question is, do we fix it with guilt or with practicality? Anger might make headlines, but it won’t stop the sun from burning hotter. We need innovation, not indignation.”

Jeeny: “Innovation built on what? The same greed that caused this? Solar panels made with cobalt mined by children? Wind turbines built from metals ripped from African soil again? Don’t you see? Even the so-called ‘solutions’ exploit the same victims.”

Jack: “So what—do nothing?”

Jeeny: “No. Do better. Acknowledge the imbalance. Build systems where those most affected have a say, where reparations aren’t charity but justice.”

Host: Jeeny’s breath quickened. A single tear clung to her cheek, catching the last light like a jewel. Jack leaned back, his face shadowed, his mind at war with its own logic.

Jack: “You talk like justice is a commodity we can trade. But life isn’t a balance sheet. You can’t pay the planet back with good intentions.”

Jeeny: “No, but we can start by seeing. That’s what Gabriel meant—reason tells us the data, but vision awakens conscience. When you see who is suffering, you can’t unsee it.”

Jack: “I’ve seen it, Jeeny. I was in Namibia once. The drought had lasted three years. The people had this… quiet acceptance. No outrage, no blame. Just endurance. That’s humanity too—the strength to bear what can’t be changed.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s resignation because the rest of the world never listened. You mistake silence for acceptance, Jack. Sometimes silence is the only voice left to the unheard.”

Host: A storm gathered at the edges of the horizon, faint flashes of lightning pulsing like the heartbeat of the earth. The air grew heavy with the smell of dust and electricity. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Jack: “You think outrage will fix the climate?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the beginning of compassion. And compassion is the seed of action.”

Jack: “You’re an idealist.”

Jeeny: “And you’re a realist who’s forgotten how to feel. Tell me, Jack, what’s the point of surviving in a world that’s forgotten justice?”

Jack: “Justice doesn’t grow food.”

Jeeny: “But it feeds the soul. Without it, survival is just another kind of death.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft and hesitant. Drops hit the tin roof like distant drums. The storm arrived not as fury, but as mercy—a cool breath over the burning earth. Both sat in silence, the sound of rain bridging what words could not.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe reason isn’t enough. I can read all the reports, all the statistics—but they never tell you what it feels like to lose a season, to watch the soil die under your feet.”

Jeeny: “That’s the heart of it, Jack. Numbers don’t move us—faces do. Justice begins when suffering has a name.”

Jack: “And yet we keep hiding behind charts. Maybe that’s how we survive our own guilt.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s how we lose our humanity.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, washing the dust from the air. Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes soft but fierce. Jack looked at her, then at the storm, his thoughts caught between logic and something older—something like empathy.

Jack: “So where does that leave us?”

Jeeny: “Between reason and outrage. Between knowing and feeling. That’s where change begins.”

Jack: “And if it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll have remembered what it meant to care.”

Host: The storm reached its crescendo, a symphony of water on earth. In the flicker of lightning, Jack’s face seemed both tired and alive, as if he had glimpsed something vast and unnameable. Jeeny reached across the table, her hand resting over his. Neither spoke.

Outside, the fields drank. The earth, for a moment, remembered how to breathe.

And somewhere in the distant darkness, the first seed of justice began to stir.