GM has never been about feeding the world or tackling

Host: The sky was the color of ash and warning. Out beyond the horizon, the fields lay in muted stillness — rows of engineered corn standing in unnatural symmetry, like soldiers awaiting orders. The wind carried no scent of earth, only the faint metallic tang of chemical residue.

In the distance, a half-collapsed barn leaned against time, its rusted roof whispering in the breeze. Jack stood near the open doorway, boots caked in mud, his jaw tight, his gaze hard — the gaze of a man who’s worked with his hands long enough to see what power does when it burrows into soil.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a wooden beam, her jacket flapping slightly in the wind. Her eyes were steady, wide with empathy and anger, the kind of quiet fury that belongs to those who still believe justice is a practical word.

Jeeny: reading softly, like reciting a creed she’s memorized by heart
“Zac Goldsmith once said, ‘GM has never been about feeding the world or tackling environmental problems. It is and has always been about control of the global food economy by a tiny handful of giant corporations. It's not wicked to question that process. It is wicked not to.’”

Jack: with a dry, tired laugh
“Control. That’s the crop no one talks about — the one that grows best in silence.”

Jeeny: nodding
“And the one they water with profit.”

Host: The wind rustled the dead stalks, making them sound like whispering ghosts. Somewhere in the distance, a drone passed low, its faint hum merging with the natural quiet — technology eavesdropping on the ruins of simplicity.

Jack: kicking at the dirt, voice low but sharp
“They sold it as salvation — crops that could resist disease, feed the poor, save the planet. But every seed came with a contract, every promise with a patent.”

Jeeny: softly, but with a steel edge
“Because it was never about food, Jack. It was about ownership. About making sure even the smallest farmer had to kneel before the largest table.”

Jack: grimly
“And call dependency innovation.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, catching the edges of the field in bruised orange light. A storm was forming somewhere behind the hills — thick, heavy clouds, swollen with the same rage that filled their silence.

Jack: after a moment, quieter
“I remember when my father used to save seeds — a little jar for every season. He’d say, ‘Seeds are memory, boy. You pass them on, and you pass on a way of life.’ Now? You can’t even plant without permission.”

Jeeny: softly, almost like prayer
“They took something sacred and turned it into software.”

Jack: gritting his teeth
“And called it progress.”

Host: The lightning flashed faintly behind the clouds, the thunder still distant — the way truth always comes, rumbling long before it arrives.

Jeeny: walking slowly toward him
“You know, when Goldsmith said it’s wicked not to question — I think he meant moral laziness is the greatest sin. Because indifference is the fertilizer of tyranny.”

Jack: bitterly
“People don’t want to question what feeds them. Especially when that food comes wrapped in convenience.”

Jeeny: nodding
“Comfort is always the first casualty of conscience.”

Host: The wind picked up, whipping at the tarps, rattling the old barn’s bones. Jack moved toward the doorframe, looking out at the landscape — the perfect rows, the unnatural stillness, the illusion of abundance.

Jack: quietly
“Do you ever think about how strange it is — to fight for nature’s freedom in a world that doesn’t even know what wild means anymore?”

Jeeny: with a sad smile
“Maybe wildness isn’t about forests or fields anymore. Maybe it’s about thought — about refusing to be cultivated.”

Jack: softly
“Rebellion as the last form of biodiversity.”

Jeeny: grinning faintly
“Exactly.”

Host: The rain began in earnest now, tapping the metal roof like applause for truth finally spoken aloud. The smell of wet earth returned — faint, hesitant, but real.

Jeeny: voice steady, eyes fierce
“They tell us it’s science. But it’s not. It’s business disguised as salvation. The same story written over every century — men playing God for profit and calling it purpose.”

Jack: nodding slowly
“And every time we question it, they call us sentimental. As if caring for the earth is a weakness instead of wisdom.”

Jeeny: leaning against the doorway beside him
“The weak aren’t the ones who ask questions. The weak are the ones too afraid to.”

Jack: quietly, after a pause
“Maybe that’s what he meant. The wickedness isn’t in corruption — it’s in complacency.”

Jeeny: softly
“Yes. Because silence doesn’t protect anyone. It just delays the damage.”

Host: The storm cracked open, lightning slicing across the horizon like a signature of divine discontent. The rain fell harder now, washing the dust from the dead corn, as if nature herself were trying to reclaim what humanity had taken.

Jack: watching the rain
“You think it’s too late?”

Jeeny: without hesitation
“It’s never too late to plant something honest.”

Jack: turning toward her
“And what’s that look like now? Protest?”

Jeeny: shaking her head
“Not protest — awareness. Refusal. The courage to choose differently, even when it’s inconvenient. Every purchase, every seed, every question — that’s resistance.”

Host: The rain softened again, fading to a steady rhythm. The fields glistened, streaked with silver under the last of the light. The air smelled alive again — clean, trembling, momentarily unclaimed.

Jack: softly, like a confession
“You know, I used to think food was just food. Now it feels like faith.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly
“Maybe it always was. Bread, after all, has always been sacred. And now the sacrament’s patented.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them — not emptiness, but gravity. The weight of a truth too vast to summarize, too intimate to ignore.

Jeeny: after a long pause
“We can’t fix everything, Jack. But we can stop calling the cage a garden.”

Jack: nodding slowly
“And start planting without permission.”

Host: The lightning flashed one last time, illuminating the vast stretch of genetically identical crops — perfect, lifeless, obedient. And in that instant, Zac Goldsmith’s words seemed to carve themselves into the night:

That the wickedness lies not in domination, but in denial.
That control of nature is control of people.
And that questioning the system is not rebellion —
it is responsibility.

Jeeny stepped forward into the rain, her voice carried by the wind.

Jeeny: quietly, like a vow
“If the seeds belong to the powerful, then the soil belongs to us.”

Jack: following her, his voice calm, resolute
“And we’ll keep asking the questions they’re afraid to answer.”

Host: The storm rolled east, the earth glistened like rebirth,
and in that field — between the mud, the thunder, and the truth —
the future waited for the next question brave enough to be asked.