For capitalism, war and peace are business and nothing but

Host: The city was draped in the gray mist of early dawn — that fragile hour when the world looks suspended between the ghost of yesterday and the machinery of today. Factories on the horizon exhaled slow plumes of smoke into the cold sky, their silhouettes like tired titans bending under invisible burdens.

A train rumbled somewhere in the distance, its sound mingling with the low hum of traffic and ambition. Inside a small café, tucked between glass towers that caught no light yet, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. Between them — a newspaper, creased and damp from the rain, its headline screaming of conflict in some distant country.

The clock above the counter ticked with sterile precision, marking time in profit and loss.

Jeeny: (reading from the paper) “Karl Liebknecht once said, ‘For capitalism, war and peace are business and nothing but business.’”

Jack: (dryly) “He wasn’t wrong. Deadly accurate, you could say — literally.”

Jeeny: “He was executed for his truth.”

Jack: “Yes. And a hundred years later, it’s still the same truth — only now dressed in better suits.”

Host: Outside, the first workers hurried through the drizzle, their reflections ghosting in the mirrored walls of the financial district. The world was waking, but not gently.

Jeeny: “You think it’s all business — even peace?”

Jack: “Of course. Peace is just a quieter market. Same investors, different tone. The factories that make bullets make scaffolding when the war’s over. The money never sleeps — it just changes form.”

Jeeny: “You sound disgusted.”

Jack: “I am. But disgust doesn’t change the math.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed, a harsh sound that filled the silence — steam rising like an industrial prayer. Jeeny watched the gray light touch Jack’s face, and in his eyes there was no anger, only exhaustion — the kind that comes from understanding too much.

Jeeny: “So where does that leave morality? Is there no space for humanity between markets?”

Jack: “Morality? It’s a line item now — public relations expense. Corporations ‘give back’ what they first took, and the world applauds their virtue.”

Jeeny: “That’s too cynical.”

Jack: “Is it? Every modern war begins with a balance sheet and ends with a reconstruction contract. Oil, tech, defense — they all feed from the same trough.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “But doesn’t that mean peace has value too? Even if bought, it’s still peace.”

Jack: “Bought peace isn’t peace, Jeeny. It’s a truce — temporary equilibrium until profit demands movement again.”

Host: The light outside strengthened, turning the glass towers into polished blades. The rain had stopped, but the air still carried that electric chill — the kind that makes everything feel fragile.

Jeeny: “You make capitalism sound like a religion.”

Jack: “It is. The only one that survived the century unbroken. Its trinity — profit, consumption, and control.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the faith it preaches?”

Jack: “That everything — including suffering — can be monetized.”

Host: The silence that followed was dense, heavy as iron. A man at the counter scrolled through stock prices on his phone, his reflection merging with the rain streaks on the window — a modern pilgrim consulting his sacred text.

Jeeny: “Liebknecht saw it early — war wasn’t an accident of politics. It was a product of economics.”

Jack: “Exactly. He understood what most people refuse to: peace isn’t the opposite of war in capitalism. It’s the next phase of it.”

Jeeny: “That’s horrifying.”

Jack: “It’s efficient.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one of them.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. We all are. Every time we buy, click, or post — we feed the same machine that trades blood for dividends.”

Host: Jeeny looked down at her coffee, its surface trembling with each passing truck outside. She stirred it slowly, as if to find meaning in the swirl.

Jeeny: “Then what’s left, Jack? If both war and peace are business, what can we believe in?”

Jack: “The spaces between transactions. The moments that can’t be sold — art, love, defiance.”

Jeeny: “Defiance?”

Jack: “Yes. The refusal to reduce human worth to numbers. That’s the only rebellion left.”

Host: A faint ray of sunlight pierced the fog, striking the glass wall behind them. For a moment, the world outside gleamed — steel and stone washed in sudden gold. It was brief, almost accidental, but it felt sacred.

Jeeny: “You know, Karl Liebknecht died believing humanity could free itself from this. He thought awareness would lead to revolution.”

Jack: “And we turned revolution into brand identity. His words became slogans on t-shirts.”

Jeeny: (sadly) “That’s true. But maybe awareness still matters — even if it doesn’t save us, it slows the decay.”

Jack: “Awareness without action is just luxury.”

Jeeny: “Then act.”

Jack: (pausing) “What would you have me do?”

Jeeny: “Start small. Refuse cynicism. Refuse to treat compassion like currency.”

Host: The wind pressed gently against the window, the hum of the city rising like a mechanical tide. People streamed by — each absorbed, efficient, necessary.

Jack: “You really think that makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever has. Empires collapse, economies fall, but kindness — real, inconvenient kindness — is unprofitable enough to survive.”

Jack: “Unprofitable…” (smiles faintly) “That might be the most revolutionary word left.”

Jeeny: “Then say it like a prayer.”

Host: They sat in silence as the morning rush began outside — the rhythm of footsteps, horns, and hurried ambition. The world moved, relentless and beautiful in its brokenness.

Jack looked again at the headline — MARKETS RISE AS NEW CONFLICT LOOMS — then folded the paper slowly and set it aside.

Jack: “You know, Liebknecht’s mistake wasn’t believing capitalism corrupts peace. It was believing people would ever value peace enough to protect it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe his words weren’t meant to change the system — maybe they were meant to change us.”

Jack: “And have they?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not yet. But they’re still being spoken, aren’t they?”

Host: The sun broke through the last of the clouds, filling the café with an unexpected warmth. For a fleeting instant, the light erased the lines of fatigue from their faces.

And in that fragile, luminous pause, Karl Liebknecht’s words hung between them — not as despair, but as warning:

That war and peace, in the machinery of greed,
may both become commodities,
but the conscience that refuses to be bought
remains the last bastion of freedom.

Host: Outside, the city roared to life —
steel, glass, and ambition rising like a hymn to profit.
But within that small café, amid the clatter of cups and quiet resistance,
two souls sat still —
holding faith not in the market,
but in the unbuyable dignity of being human.