Having known war I know the value of peace. Having lived under

Host:
The rain came softly over the city, a steady whisper on rooftops, puddles, and restless windows. In a small café tucked between narrow streets, the light was warm, golden against the gray outside. The sound of cups clinking and the low hum of quiet conversation created a fragile peace, like the sound of life healing itself.

By the window, Jack sat with a mug in his hands, staring out at the mist that blurred the world beyond the glass. Across from him sat Jeeny, her hands folded around her own cup, her gaze not on the rain, but on him — watching the way his silence trembled with thought.

Jeeny: [softly] “Phan Thi Kim Phuc once said, ‘Having known war I know the value of peace. Having lived under government control I know the value of freedom. Having lived with hatred, terror and corruption I know the value of faith and forgiveness.’”

Jack: [quietly] “The girl from the photo.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The one running from the fire. She grew up to forgive the people who burned her.”

Host:
The rain outside intensified — a slow percussion against the windowpane. The café’s lights flickered slightly, as if bowing to the weight of the world’s memory.

Jack: [leaning back, his voice low] “I’ve seen that picture a hundred times. Every time I look at it, I think — how can someone survive that and still talk about peace? I can’t even forgive smaller things.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes her words sacred. They weren’t written from philosophy — they were written from fire.”

Jack: “She didn’t just see hell. She walked out of it barefoot, carrying grace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the kind of forgiveness that isn’t weakness. It’s rebellion.”

Host:
The steam from their mugs rose and vanished between them, like prayer turning into silence. A bus passed outside, splashing through a puddle, its sound momentarily loud and human — then gone.

Jack: “You know, we say words like ‘peace,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘forgiveness’ so casually. But for her, each one was earned through pain most people couldn’t imagine.”

Jeeny: “She redefined them. For us, peace is the absence of conflict. For her, peace is the presence of healing.”

Jack: [staring into his coffee] “Freedom too. For her it wasn’t politics — it was the right to breathe without fear. The right to wake up and not expect fire.”

Jeeny: “And forgiveness… it wasn’t forgetting. It was refusing to carry hate any longer.”

Jack: “You think forgiveness can really erase hatred?”

Jeeny: [shaking her head] “Not erase — transform. Forgiveness doesn’t destroy pain; it reclaims power. It says: ‘You cannot define me by what you did to me.’”

Host:
The rain slowed a little, softening. The café grew quieter, as if even time were listening.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? She could have chosen revenge, and no one would have blamed her. But she chose mercy. That kind of courage… it’s not taught. It’s born.”

Jeeny: “It’s born when survival becomes sacred. When you’ve seen what hatred can do, forgiveness becomes not moral — but necessary.”

Jack: [softly] “Necessary to live.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Hatred is a cage. Forgiveness is the key. And faith — faith is what gives you the strength to turn it.”

Host:
A woman at the counter laughed faintly, the sound echoing in the soft rainlight. Jack looked up, as if that small laughter itself was a reminder of what survival looks like — simple joy, unguarded.

Jack: “You know, I’ve lived through loss, anger, disappointment… but what she lived through — that’s another universe. And still, she built peace out of ashes. Makes you wonder what we’re doing with our easier lives.”

Jeeny: [gently] “We’re still learning what she already knows — that peace isn’t given. It’s built every day in the smallest ways: in how we listen, in how we let go.”

Jack: “But letting go feels like betrayal sometimes.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we mistake pain for loyalty. We hold onto it like proof — proof we were wronged, proof we were alive. But she understood that letting go isn’t betrayal. It’s evolution.”

Host:
The clouds outside began to break. A thin shaft of light spilled through the gray, touching the wet glass. The reflection shimmered across their faces — soft gold over shadows.

Jack: “You think she found peace?”

Jeeny: “I think she became it.”

Jack: [looking up] “How?”

Jeeny: “By living. By speaking. By loving. When you’ve seen the worst of humanity, the decision to love anyway becomes the highest form of faith.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what she meant — faith not in religion, but in people. In the possibility that we can change.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the miracle of forgiveness — it restores the idea that humanity is still worth saving.”

Host:
The light grew stronger now, spilling over the café walls, soft and pure. Outside, the rain had almost stopped, leaving behind the smell of earth and renewal.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, I used to think forgiveness was naive. But maybe it’s the only thing strong enough to keep the world from collapsing.”

Jeeny: “It’s not naive — it’s radical. To forgive is to refuse despair.”

Jack: “To choose peace when you’ve earned rage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
A few moments passed in silence. Then Jack raised his cup slightly — a quiet toast to something unseen.

Jack: “To peace, then. The kind that isn’t soft — the kind that’s forged.”

Jeeny: [raising hers] “And to faith — the kind that survives fire.”

Host:
The camera would pull back through the café window — the two of them bathed in the afterlight of rain, two quiet figures framed by reflection and warmth. The city behind them gleamed with wet streets and the faint pulse of renewal.

And as the image faded, Phan Thi Kim Phuc’s words would rise like a hymn from a healed soul — not as history, but as prophecy:

Having known war,
she found peace not in silence,
but in forgiveness.
Having lived under control,
she found freedom not in rebellion,
but in grace.
Having walked through hatred,
she chose love —
not because it was easy,
but because it was the only thing
strong enough to endure the fire.
And from her scars,
the world learned this:
the human heart,
for all its breaking,
is still capable
of light.