Freedom cannot be given... It can only be taken away.

Host: The night had fallen over the city like a curtain of smoke. Rain dripped from the edges of old rooftops, and neon lights bled their colors across the wet pavement. In a dim corner café near the harbor, the air was thick with coffee and loneliness. Jack sat by the window, his reflection cut in two by the raindrops, his hands wrapped around a cup that had long gone cold. Jeeny entered quietly, her coat still shimmering with rain, her eyes searching, almost tender, but with that faint tremor of conviction she carried like a flame.

The clock on the wall ticked—slow, almost reluctant.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what freedom really means, Jack?”

Jack: “Too often. Usually when I realize how little of it people actually have.”

Jeeny: “David Allan Coe once said—‘Freedom cannot be given… it can only be taken away.’ What do you think he meant?”

Host: The question hung between them, heavy as the steam rising from their cups, the rain outside a slow metronome to the silence that followed.

Jack: “He meant exactly what he said. Freedom isn’t something you can hand out like a gift or a medal. We’re all born with it. It’s ours by default. The only thing the world can do is steal it, one rule, one system, one fear at a time.”

Jeeny: “That sounds cynical.”

Jack: “It’s just realistic. Look around you. Every law written, every border drawn, every camera watching—it’s all about control. People talk about ‘earning’ their freedom, but that’s the lie. You don’t earn what you already had.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers tracing a slow circle on the table, her voice barely above a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through the murmur of the café.

Jeeny: “But freedom without responsibility is chaos, Jack. Maybe we need some of those lines—not to take our freedom, but to protect it. Rules can be a kind of safety, don’t you think?”

Jack: “Safety is the polite word people use for fear. The more you chase it, the less free you become.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without safety, people suffer. Look at the French Revolution—they fought for freedom, and what did it become? Blood in the streets, heads on pikes. Freedom without structure devours itself.”

Host: Lightning flashed outside, and for a moment the reflection of Jack’s eyes in the window looked like two blades of steel.

Jack: “Then you’re saying freedom should come with a leash?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it should come with a heart.”

Jack: “A heart doesn’t stop a tyrant. A gun does.”

Jeeny: “And what if the gun is in the tyrant’s hand, Jack?”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming harder against the glass, the rhythm of the storm now echoing their voices—an invisible argument in the sky.

Jeeny: “You think freedom is only lost when someone takes it by force. But sometimes, Jack, people give it away—when they stop thinking, when they stop feeling, when they let comfort replace choice. Isn’t that another kind of theft? The one we allow?”

Jack: “So now it’s our fault?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Look at the digital age—people trade their privacy, their time, their minds for a little convenience. No one’s forcing them. They’re just… sleeping.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching with that half-smile that wasn’t quite one.

Jack: “You’re mistaking complacency for surrender. Freedom isn’t something you lose by falling asleep. It’s taken from you while you dream. That’s the whole trick.”

Jeeny: “But what if you could wake up before they take it? What if freedom isn’t about keeping your chains off, but about choosing what they’re made of?”

Jack: “Chains are still chains, Jeeny.”

Host: The café dimmed, a brief power flicker. The room was now only lit by the flashes of lightning outside. Their faces glowed and disappeared like two souls caught between truths.

Jeeny: “You always see freedom as a battle, don’t you? Something to fight, to defend, to hold like a weapon.”

Jack: “Because that’s what it is. Every freedom humanity’s ever had came through conflict. You think the civil rights movement happened because people asked nicely? No, Jeeny. They stood up. They took their freedom back. Coe was right. Freedom can’t be given—it’s only ever taken away, and the brave few have to take it back again.”

Jeeny: “But if you always fight, you never learn to live. The goal isn’t to win freedom—it’s to learn how to use it.”

Jack: “And who decides how it’s used? You? The moral ones? The kind ones? Because history shows that even the kind turn cruel when they think their goodness is law.”

Jeeny: “That’s why freedom must be balanced with compassion, Jack. Otherwise it becomes tyranny in disguise. You say you can’t give freedom—but maybe you can share it. Like light. You pass it on, and it doesn’t get smaller.”

Host: Her voice softened, yet her eyes burned with a quiet fire, as if she were seeing something beyond the walls, beyond the storm.

Jack: “Light can be taken away too. One switch, one blackout, one hand over a candle—and it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Then we become the ones who light it again.”

Host: A brief silence settled, as the storm moved farther out to sea. The sound of rain was softer now, almost like breathing.

Jeeny: “You talk like freedom is a thing to be kept with fists, but I think it’s something to be grown with trust. When Nelson Mandela walked out of prison after twenty-seven years, he didn’t take freedom like a thief in the night—he gave it to everyone by forgiving them. Isn’t that proof that freedom can be shared?”

Jack: “Mandela’s freedom was taken from him. He earned it back by surviving. Forgiveness didn’t give him freedom—it just made him free inside. That’s different.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But doesn’t that show freedom isn’t about what they can take from you—but what you refuse to let them touch?”

Jack: “Spoken like someone who hasn’t had it ripped away.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly, a fracture beneath his calm. Jeeny noticed. She didn’t speak for a moment.

Jeeny: “Who took yours, Jack?”

Host: The question landed like a quiet knife. Jack looked away, his jaw tight, his hands clenched around the cup.

Jack: “Doesn’t matter.”

Jeeny: “It does.”

Jack: “Maybe once. Not now. Let’s just say… once you’ve had someone tell you where to go, what to do, who to be—you stop believing in freedom as some noble idea. You start seeing it as air. Invisible. Necessary. And gone before you know it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why we fight so differently. You fight to protect the air; I fight to keep it breathable.”

Host: The rain had nearly stopped now. Only the sound of a single drip echoed from the gutter. The sky outside was a bruise turning to dawn.

Jack: “So what’s your answer then? If freedom can’t be given, what do we do? Just wait until someone takes it and hope we can grow it back?”

Jeeny: “No. We teach people to recognize when it’s being taken. That’s the first act of rebellion—awareness. You said the world steals freedom one rule at a time. Then maybe we learn to see the theft before it’s done.”

Jack: “You think awareness is enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s where courage begins.”

Host: The first light of morning broke through the window, glimmering on their faces—a fragile, pale gold like a promise.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe freedom isn’t given or taken—it’s remembered. And most people forget.”

Jeeny: “Then we remind them. Every day.”

Host: Jack nodded, his grey eyes no longer cold, but weary, human, almost grateful.

The café filled slowly with the sound of life—distant traffic, a door opening, a faint laugh. The storm was gone. But its echo lingered, like the memory of a truth too vast to hold in words.

And in that quiet moment, as the light settled on the table, freedom felt less like a thing to be fought for, and more like something that had always been there—waiting to be seen, before it was ever taken away.