During my travels in Iraq, Israel, Gaza, Brazil, Indonesia

Host:
The sunset bled across the desert horizon, streaking the sky with shades of amber, rose, and smoke. A faint wind carried the scent of sand and distant cities, of prayers murmured in languages that had seen empires rise and fall. The world felt both ancient and restless, as if turning beneath the weight of its own questions.

Jack and Jeeny sat atop the ruins of an old stone fortress on the outskirts of Mosul. Below them, the Tigris River shimmered like a silver blade, cutting through the earth and memory alike.

Jack lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features, his grey eyes reflecting the dying light. He looked tired, not from travel, but from the burden of witnessing too much. Jeeny sat beside him, her scarf fluttering in the evening wind, her eyes tracing the river as if searching for something sacred hidden within its currents.

For a moment, neither spoke. The world was too vast, the noise of human hope and sorrow too loud to translate into words.

Then Jeeny broke the silence, her voice a soft echo in the wind.

Jeeny:
“Michael Franti once said, ‘During my travels in Iraq, Israel, Gaza, Brazil, Indonesia, Japan, Europe and all over the United States, I have seen and heard the voices of people who want change. They want the stabilization of the economy, education and healthcare for all, renewable energy and an environmental vision with an eye on generations to come.’”

She turned toward him. “Don’t you hear it too, Jack? That chorus? Everywhere we go, people are crying out for change. For something better than this endless cycle of greed and violence.”

Jack:
He exhaled, the smoke curling upward, dissolving into the twilight. “I hear it. But I also hear the sound of history repeating itself. People have always wanted change, Jeeny. The problem is, they all want different kinds of it.”

Host:
His voice was low, steady — like the gravel beneath a tire, grounded, but carrying the rumble of doubt. The light caught on the lines around his eyes, lines carved by years of watching the world promise progress, only to break its word.

Jeeny:
“Maybe,” she said softly, “but the fact that people still want change — that they still believe they can make it — that means something, doesn’t it?”

Jack:
“Belief,” he snorted, flicking ash from his cigarette, “is the most dangerous weapon we’ve ever invented. It can build nations, but it can also burn them. Every revolution, every war, every holy mission—all fueled by belief in change.”

Host:
The wind shifted, carrying the distant call to prayer from a mosque below. The melody hung over the valley, solemn and beautiful, like a lament for a world still trying to find its balance.

Jeeny:
“But you’re missing it,” she said, her eyes bright in the dimming light. “Franti wasn’t talking about revolutions or power. He was talking about humanity—about the ordinary voices that still care, even when the world doesn’t. He’s saying that the hope for change isn’t dead—it’s alive in the hearts of those who still dream for others.”

Jack:
He looked at her, his brow furrowed. “And what good does that do, Jeeny? Dreams don’t feed people. Hope doesn’t heal the sick. You can’t run a country on good intentions.”

Jeeny:
Her jaw tightened, and for the first time her voice carried anger. “You think cynicism is realism, but it’s not—it’s fear. You’re afraid to believe that things could still change, because if they can’t, then all this,” she gestured toward the valley, “all this suffering, is just pointless.”

Host:
The words struck him harder than she knew. He looked away, his eyes tracing the river, the villages, the scars of conflict etched into the earth. The air between them hummed with the electricity of unspoken truths.

Jack:
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen, Jeeny. The refugee camps, the burned homes, the kids without schools or futures. Tell me how a few songs and idealistic speeches change that.”

Jeeny:
Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice remained steady. “They don’t change it all at once, Jack. But they start something. Every great movement began as a whisper, as one heart believing another could hear it.”

Host:
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the sound of the river and the distant barking of dogs from the village below. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, and the world had turned to shades of blue and memory.

Jack:
“So you’re saying the world can be saved by poetry and protest?”

Jeeny:
“I’m saying the world can only be saved if it still feels. If people can still look at one another and care. If we lose that, we lose everything.”

Host:
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, the sound weary, like a man who’s carried too many truths for too long.

Jack:
“You know, I used to believe that once. I used to think if I just traveled far enough, saw enough cultures, met enough people, I’d understand how to fix things. But all I found was that every place was broken in its own way.”

Jeeny:
“And yet you’re still here,” she said quietly. “Still watching. Still listening. Maybe that’s what Franti means too — that we keep moving, keep seeing, because somewhere in that journey, we begin to understand what connects us all.”

Host:
A faint smile touched her lips, and for the first time that evening, his eyes softened. The moonlight began to spill across the river, turning it into a ribbon of silver fire. The world seemed to breathe, just a little easier.

Jack:
“You always find a way to turn despair into poetry, don’t you?”

Jeeny:
“Someone has to,” she replied, gently. “Otherwise, despair wins.”

Host:
They sat in silence, listening to the river, the wind, the distant voices of the world. From the minarets and the markets, from New York’s skyline to the alleys of Gaza, from the rainforests of Brazil to the temples of Kyoto, those voices—tired yet defiant—seemed to merge into one song: a song of change, of persistence, of human longing that refused to die.

Jack:
“You think we’ll ever get there, Jeeny? A world with stability, education, healthcare, clean air... the things Franti listed — do you think we’ll ever see it?”

Jeeny:
Her eyes lifted toward the stars. “Maybe not in our lifetime. But maybe in theirs.”

She pointed toward the lights of a village, where children’s laughter still echoed despite the darkness. “That’s why we keep believing, Jack. Because they’re watching us. Because the future is always listening.”

Host:
The night had deepened, but the stars had come alive, scattered across the sky like fragments of unbroken faith. The river kept flowing, carrying both sorrow and hope in equal measure.

And there, beneath that endless sky, Jack finally nodded—not in agreement, but in understanding.

Jack:
“Maybe that’s the real change,” he said softly. “Not the kind we see. The kind we believe in enough to fight for, even when it’s still far away.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly,” she whispered. “Because belief is the bridge between the world as it is and the world as it could be.”

Host:
The wind shifted once more, carrying the faint sound of a lute from a distant courtyard, a song sung in a language older than time—a song of hope, loss, and becoming.

As the stars brightened, the camera of the night pulled slowly away, leaving Jack and Jeeny as two silhouettes on a hill, framed against the immortal horizon of a world still learning how to change.

And in the silence that followed, one could almost hear the echo of Franti’s words carried by the wind —
that in every corner of the earth, the voice of hope still whispers,
“I want change.”