Fascism says what you and I experience as facts or what reporters

Host: The night hung over the city like a heavy curtain, woven from smoke, neon, and fear. The streets outside were still humming — sirens, distant voices, the restless heartbeat of a place that refused to sleep.

Inside a small bar, the air was thick with whiskey fumes and the low murmur of an old radio, its voice barely audible beneath the crackle. The walls were stained with memory — old posters, torn photographs, and a flickering television showing silent news footage of a protest that had turned into chaos.

At the far end of the counter sat Jack — lean, tired, the collar of his shirt half-open, a glass turning slowly in his hand. Jeeny sat beside him, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes steady, reflecting the flicker of the TV.

A single word echoed from the radio — “truth.” It was followed by laughter.

Jeeny: “Timothy Snyder once said, ‘Fascism says what you and I experience as facts are irrelevant. All that matters are impressions and emotions and myths.’”

Jack: “Yeah. And look around — the world’s full of myths now. Truth’s just another brand. You can buy the version you like best.”

Host: His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion — or disillusionment. The bartender, wiping down a glass, glanced over but said nothing. Outside, a siren wailed, then faded into the distance like a wound closing.

Jeeny: “Maybe because truth doesn’t scream anymore. Myths do. They’re louder, prettier. People don’t want the burden of facts — they want the comfort of feeling right.”

Jack: “Feeling right doesn’t change what’s real.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it? In a world where enough people believe something, it becomes real — at least, real enough to destroy lives.”

Jack: “That’s not truth, Jeeny. That’s delusion scaled up.”

Jeeny: “It’s still power. And power doesn’t care about your definitions.”

Host: The television light flickered across their faces — blue, white, blue again. Footage showed a man shouting into a microphone, a crowd roaring, eyes glassy with devotion, fists raised like a new religion had been born.

Jack: “That’s what scares me. People don’t follow truth anymore — they follow tone. Anger sells better than accuracy.”

Jeeny: “Because anger gives them identity. People are starving for belonging, Jack. They’ll trade facts for the illusion of purpose.”

Jack: “So, fascism’s just emotional hunger dressed up as ideology.”

Jeeny: “And the dangerous part? It feeds that hunger by killing the appetite for thought.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows, making the old sign outside tremble against its chain. The bar’s lights flickered, briefly throwing their faces into darkness. When they reappeared, Jack’s expression had hardened.

Jack: “You sound like you’re explaining it — almost defending it.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m understanding it. There’s a difference. You can’t fight what you refuse to understand.”

Jack: “Understanding monsters doesn’t make them less monstrous.”

Jeeny: “But it helps us see the human shape underneath — the part of ourselves that could become them.”

Host: Silence settled again, thick as smoke. Jack stared at the ice melting in his glass, the small circles rippling outward.

Jack: “You think we’re all capable of that? Of believing lies we know are lies?”

Jeeny: “We already do. Every time we scroll past pain that doesn’t fit our story. Every time we choose comfort over confrontation. Every time we say, ‘It’s complicated,’ just to keep our conscience quiet.”

Jack: “That’s not fascism. That’s fatigue.”

Jeeny: “They’re cousins. Fatigue makes room for obedience.”

Host: Outside, a car horn blared, echoing against the alley walls, then vanished. The radio buzzed again — the host laughing at some headline — the sound almost mocking.

Jack: “The worst part is, people think they’re immune. They say, ‘That could never happen here.’ But it already is — just slower, quieter, dressed in democracy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It doesn’t march anymore; it drips. It seeps into the language. Into the way we start to doubt what’s in front of us.”

Jack: “Like calling lies ‘alternative facts.’”

Jeeny: “Or calling cruelty ‘policy.’ Or calling silence ‘peace.’”

Host: The television showed images now — a group of reporters being pushed away from a building, their cameras swinging, their microphones muted. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “I used to think truth was indestructible. Like gravity. But now it feels negotiable.”

Jeeny: “It’s always been fragile, Jack. Truth only exists when people choose to protect it. It’s not a law of nature — it’s an act of will.”

Jack: “Then we’re losing the will.”

Jeeny: “No — we’re losing the courage. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried the weight of something ancient — something weary and resolute. The rain outside began again, slow at first, then steady, drumming against the roof like a reminder.

Jeeny: “You know what myth fascism offers? The myth of certainty. It says, ‘You don’t have to think. Just feel. Just belong.’ It replaces doubt with destiny. And people love destiny — it’s easier than responsibility.”

Jack: “Yeah. Certainty feels like safety, until it starts asking for your silence.”

Jeeny: “Or your neighbor’s life.”

Host: Jack looked at her sharply. Her eyes didn’t waver. For a moment, neither spoke. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with memory — of old wars, old slogans, things humanity swore it would never repeat.

Jack: “You ever wonder why it always comes back? After everything we’ve learned?”

Jeeny: “Because truth isn’t inherited. Every generation has to earn it again.”

Jack: “And most don’t even realize it’s slipping away until it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why artists, journalists, teachers — they matter. They’re the gardeners of fact, Jack. They keep pulling out the weeds of myth before they choke the soil.”

Host: The bartender switched off the TV. The room fell into dim silence, broken only by the clinking of a few stray glasses. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the counter, his voice rough, but quieter now.

Jack: “And what happens when even the gardeners get tired?”

Jeeny: “Then the rest of us have to pick up their tools.”

Host: A long pause. The rain softened again, turning into a fine mist. Jeeny reached for her glass, swirling the last of her drink — a tiny whirlpool of amber in the dim light.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Snyder meant. Fascism doesn’t kill truth with violence — it drowns it in noise. The antidote isn’t shouting louder. It’s staying clear, grounded, human.”

Jack: “And when no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep speaking — even if it’s just to remember that you still can.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted to meet hers. For the first time that night, there was no argument left in them — only fatigue, and a thin, quiet kind of faith.

Jack: “You really think the truth can win?”

Jeeny: “Not easily. But it can outlast. Myths burn bright — truth endures slow.”

Host: The bar felt warmer now. The rain had stopped completely, and outside, the city’s lights shimmered through the mist, fractured but alive. Jack finished his drink, set the glass down, and exhaled deeply.

Jack: “So we endure slow, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like the truth does.”

Host: They rose to leave. The door creaked, letting in the cool night air, scented faintly of wet asphalt and hope. The streetlights glowed against the mist like a faint constellation, imperfect but steadfast.

As they stepped out, the radio’s static followed them to the door — fading, then vanishing entirely into the hum of the living world.

And in that silence, between myth and rain, between despair and defiance, two weary souls walked on — carrying the only weapon truth ever had: the simple, unyielding act of remembering what is real.