Everybody is a political person, whether you say something or you

Host: The city was drenched in the amber light of a late afternoon, its streets still glistening from a morning rain. Steam rose from the asphalt, curling around the feet of passersby like ghosts of forgotten conversations. Inside a small, dimly lit café, the hum of distant traffic mingled with the soft jazz that floated from a crackling speaker.

At a corner table, Jack sat with his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee, his grey eyes fixed on the window, watching the world move in patterns he no longer tried to understand. Jeeny sat across from him, her elbows resting on the table, stirring her tea absentmindedly, the spoon clinking in a rhythmic, almost melancholic way.

The tension between them was soft, but heavy — the kind that comes not from anger, but from the weight of meaning about to be spoken.

Jeeny: “Paulo Coelho once said, ‘Everybody is a political person, whether you say something or you are silent.’ Do you believe that, Jack? That even silence is political?”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “No. I think silence is just silence. Not everything needs to be labeled as political. Some people just want to live, Jeeny. They work, they eat, they raise their kids. That’s not politics — that’s survival.”

Host: The rain began again, drumming lightly against the window, as if to echo his defense. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice grew steady, measured, like someone peeling back the layers of a truth she had held for too long.

Jeeny: “But survival is political. Every choice we make — what we buy, what we ignore, how we treat others — it all shapes the system we live in. The woman who refuses to speak about injustice is still part of the machine that keeps it running.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So you’re saying the baker down the street, who just wants to sell bread, is making a political statement?”

Jeeny: “Yes. By how he prices it. By who he hires. By whether he turns away a hungry child because they can’t pay.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with the kind of skepticism that hid more pain than disbelief. The air between them quivered, as if the city’s pulse had found its way into their hearts.

Jack: “You make everything sound like a battlefield, Jeeny. People can’t live under that kind of moral microscope. Not everyone wants to fight. Some of us just want peace.”

Jeeny: “But peace built on apathy isn’t peace — it’s comfort bought by someone else’s pain. Think of apartheid, Jack. The people who didn’t speak, who just wanted to ‘stay out of it’ — their silence helped keep it alive.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and with it the smell of wet earth. A young man walked in, his jacket soaked, his eyes tired. He nodded politely to the barista and took a seat near the back, scrolling through his phone.

The moment was ordinary, but it carried the weight of the world — the background hum of politics, choices, inequality, and silence that filled even the quietest spaces.

Jack: (sighing) “Maybe you’re right in theory. But in practice, most people are just trying to get through the day. You can’t expect everyone to be a revolutionary. People are tired.”

Jeeny: “Of course they’re tired. The world makes them tired. But the moment we stop caring — that’s when we start losing what makes us human.”

Jack: “Caring doesn’t always change anything. You can protest, you can speak, and the world still rolls over you. Look at history — how many people shouted for change and ended up forgotten?”

Jeeny: (leaning in, her voice trembling slightly) “And yet every movement began with a few who refused to stay silent. The Civil Rights marchers, Jack — they didn’t win overnight. But their voices changed hearts, and hearts change laws. Silence never has.”

Host: The music faded, leaving a hollow quiet. Only the rain spoke, tracing patterns down the glass. Jack’s hand shook slightly as he lifted his cup, but his eyes avoided hers.

Jack: “You talk like silence is sin. But sometimes silence is survival. There are people in countries where speaking can get you killed. You call them complicit too?”

Jeeny: “No. I call them courageous, because even their silence carries meaning. It’s not the same as indifference. The difference, Jack, is in the heart behind the silence.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, but it cut through the room like light through fog. Jack paused, his breathing slow, measured, as if balancing on the edge between cynicism and understanding.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father lost his job because he refused to join the party line. He said silence was the only dignity left to him. Was he political then? Or just tired of shouting at deaf walls?”

Jeeny: (her tone gentler now) “He was political because he chose silence out of conviction, not fear. That’s still a stance. That’s what Coelho meant — every gesture, every withdrawal, is part of how we live in the world.”

Jack: “So there’s no escape from politics. No private corner where a man can just live without being part of some cause.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the moment we share air, streets, dreams — we’re connected. You can’t wash your hands of the world when your breath is part of it.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, snapping them both back into the present. A puddle reflected the neon signs — red, blue, flickering like the heartbeat of a city that never slept.

The tension shifted now, no longer confrontational, but intimate, aching. Two people, grappling not with each other, but with the truth that lived between them.

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound beautiful, Jeeny. Painful, but beautiful. I used to believe life could be simple — just work, love, sleep. No ideologies, no wars in words. But maybe you’re right. Maybe even the act of trying to stay clean is already choosing a side.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because even refusing to choose is a choice.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Then we’re all guilty.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Not guilty. Just responsible.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air, fragile, but heavy with truth. Jack nodded, his eyes drifting back to the window where the rain had slowed to a mist, the sky tinted in muted orange.

He took a breath, as if the city’s rhythm had synchronized with his own heartbeat.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what politics really is. Not parliaments. Not elections. Just… how we live with each other.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. How we treat the world when no one’s watching.”

Host: The light from a passing bus glowed across their faces, washing them in a brief, golden shimmer, like a moment of clarity caught between storms.

For a second, both sat in silence — not as opponents, but as witnesses to the same truth.

The rain stopped. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, and the city breathed, restless, alive, political in its every pulse.

And in that small café, amid the clinking cups and distant footsteps, Jack and Jeeny understood what Coelho meant:

That even the quietest hearts speak politics — not through power, but through presence.

The camera would have pulled back, slowly, as the scene faded, leaving only the reflection of two faces in rain-streaked glass — one skeptical, one hopeful, both alive within the same unseen revolution.