Global political conditions make a direct American intervention

Host:
The room was dim, lit only by the yellow light of a desk lamp and the orange glow of a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray. A half-drunk cup of black coffee sat beside a pile of newspapers, their headlines old but urgent — Reagan Intensifies Contra Support, Nicaragua Defiant, Cold War Tensions Rise.

Rain pressed against the windowpane like restless fingers. The air was heavy with the kind of quiet that happens only when people are talking about things bigger — and more dangerous — than themselves.

Jack sat near the window, coat still on, staring out at the wet city. Jeeny leaned against the edge of the desk, flipping through a tattered political journal, her voice low but charged with energy.

Jeeny: reading aloud “Tomas Borge once said, ‘Global political conditions make a direct American intervention difficult, but President Reagan's messianic and visceral attitude toward the Nicaraguan revolution could mean it will happen as an act of desperation.’”

Jack: half-smiling “Messianic and visceral — that’s one way to describe American foreign policy in the ‘80s.”

Jeeny: smirking faintly “And maybe in every decade since.”

Jack: turning toward her “You think it’s desperation that drives empires? I always thought it was certainty.”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing when you believe you’re chosen.”

Host: The rain hit harder now, a soft percussion against the glass. The lamp light flickered briefly, throwing their shadows against the walls — two silhouettes debating history while the world outside repeated it.

Jack: lighting a cigarette, voice dry “Reagan thought the Sandinistas were the devil, and Nicaragua the next domino to fall. Everything was ideology back then — faith dressed as strategy.”

Jeeny: nodding “And Borge saw it for what it was — theology disguised as policy. That’s what he meant by ‘messianic.’ It wasn’t politics. It was salvation with bombs attached.”

Jack: “Yeah. American exceptionalism’s favorite costume.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every empire calls its violence divine at first — until the body count makes the hymns sound hollow.”

Host: Jeeny’s tone was calm, but her words carried the weight of old anger — the kind that outlives its politics and becomes something deeper, almost moral. Jack exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, his face half-hidden in the shadow of the lamplight.

Jack: “Borge knew what desperation looked like. The guy had been tortured by Somoza’s regime, imprisoned, beaten — and still built a revolution out of ashes. He understood that fanaticism and fear are twins.”

Jeeny: softly “And that both wear patriotism like perfume.”

Jack: “You really think Reagan’s obsession with Nicaragua was desperation, though? The U.S. had the world’s biggest military. They didn’t need to be desperate.”

Jeeny: “Power’s never desperate because of weakness, Jack. It’s desperate because of doubt. The more control you have, the more terrified you are of losing it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So you act before you think.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You call it ‘defending democracy.’ But what you’re really defending is the illusion of control.”

Host: The rain softened again, turning into a rhythmic murmur — like the sound of history catching its breath.

Jack: after a long silence “You know, there’s something haunting about what Borge said. ‘As an act of desperation.’ It’s prophetic. He knew that ideology always collapses into impulse.”

Jeeny: closing the book “And impulse is what kills revolutions. Every time. The Americans thought they could stop the Nicaraguan movement by force. But you can’t kill an idea that’s already learned how to survive in pain.”

Jack: smirking faintly “You sound like a Sandinista.”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze “I sound like someone who’s tired of watching power dress itself up as purpose.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked quietly — the only sound now besides the wind outside. The lamp hummed faintly, the light catching in Jeeny’s eyes — not anger, but clarity.

Jack: “You know, Borge’s line about Reagan being ‘messianic’ — it hits harder now. It wasn’t just about him. Every generation has its messiah. They all start with belief and end with blood.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Because when leaders think they’re chosen, they stop listening. They start saving people who never asked to be saved.”

Jack: quietly “And when salvation becomes a slogan, someone always burns.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly.”

Host: The smoke curled between them — a pale thread connecting two people, two histories, two truths.

Outside, thunder rolled low and distant — the voice of a world that has heard too many speeches and too few apologies.

Jack: sighs “It’s strange, though. You look at Borge — this revolutionary poet, half-saint, half-soldier — and you realize how small the world’s grown since then. Back then, people believed they could change it. Now, everyone just manages it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because revolutions have gone digital. They happen in hashtags instead of jungles.”

Jack: half-laughing “And governments don’t send troops anymore. They send algorithms.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And the ideology’s the same — control disguised as salvation.”

Jack: “So nothing’s changed.”

Jeeny: quietly “Except the weapons.”

Host: The rain returned, sudden and heavy, flooding the soundscape. The window fogged up, and for a moment the city beyond looked like a reflection of every place that’s ever burned for someone else’s ideals.

Jack: looking at the window “You know, desperation doesn’t just happen to empires. It happens to people. We all justify destruction when we’re afraid of losing meaning.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. Borge knew that too. He’d seen both sides — the oppressed and the powerful. He understood that fear drives cruelty more than hatred ever does.”

Jack: softly “And that power built on fear always ends up collapsing on itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the act of desperation isn’t just a military one. It’s moral. It’s the moment you stop believing in your own humanity and start believing only in your cause.”

Host: The lamp flickered again, its light dimming to a whisper. The air felt heavier now, the way it does when two people reach the truth they weren’t looking for but somehow needed to find.

Jack: quietly “You think Borge ever forgave the world?”

Jeeny: after a long pause “I think he forgave life. But not hypocrisy.”

Jack: nodding “Maybe that’s the best we can do.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s not enough to forgive history. You have to understand it — or you’ll just repeat it with better excuses.”

Host: The rain slowed, and for a moment, there was silence — deep, total, the kind that carries echoes of old revolutions and fallen dreams.

Jack put out his cigarette. The smoke rose and vanished. Jeeny closed the journal, its cover worn, its message eternal.

Jack: softly “You know, Borge’s line — it sounds like prophecy, but it’s really a warning. That every empire, every ideology, will one day act not out of strength, but out of fear of fading.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “And when they do, it’s not politics anymore. It’s panic dressed as destiny.”

Jack: quietly “And destiny always demands a sacrifice.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Usually the poor. Always the young.”

Host: The last of the rain stopped. The air cleared. The window reflected their faces — two small figures in the great machinery of the world, still questioning, still awake.

And as the light flickered once more before fading to dark, Tomas Borge’s words lingered in the air like a dirge and a lesson:

That power, no matter how righteous it sounds,
is most dangerous when it believes itself divine.

That desperation, not strategy,
moves empires to act without conscience.

And that the truest revolution
is not born in the fire of ideology,
but in the quiet defiance of those
who refuse to be saved by anyone’s illusion.

Fade out.