History does not record in its annals any lasting domination

Host:
The rain had been falling since morning — a gray curtain drawn across the city, veiling its rooftops and alleys in a slow, relentless melancholy. Through the fog, the old university library loomed like a sleeping titan, its stone walls darkened by time, its windows glowing with the dim light of scholars who refused to rest.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of paper, ink, and memory. Candles flickered in brass holders, their flames dancing over dusty tomes and maps sprawled across the wooden table.

At that table sat Jack and Jeeny — two souls caught in the storm of ideas, their voices the only sound alive in the library’s cathedral hush.

Between them, an open book — its pages worn thin by centuries of thought — bore the name of José Rizal. And across the page, the words that stirred them both like distant thunder:
"History does not record in its annals any lasting domination exercised by one people over another, of different race, of diverse usages and customs, of opposite and divergent ideals. One of the two had to yield and succumb."

Jeeny: tracing her fingers along the words He wrote this with fire, you know. A man under oppression, but still dreaming of freedom. He wasn’t talking about politics only — he was talking about the soul of a people.

Jack: leaning back, his voice low, skeptical Or maybe he was talking about the inevitability of power. About how nature itself resists balance. One force always yields, one always rules — it’s the way the world works.

Jeeny: glancing up sharply You sound almost proud of that.

Jack: shrugs Not proud, just realistic. Every empire, every revolution, every nation — it’s just a different version of the same story. One side dominates, the other breaks, and eventually the roles reverse. History isn’t moral, Jeeny. It’s cyclical.

Host:
A flash of lightning lit the room, spilling silver light across the pages, illuminating the tension between them. Jeeny’s eyes caught the glow — fierce, almost defiant — while Jack’s stayed in shadow, calm but hardened.

The rain drummed harder against the windowpanes, as if echoing the pulse of their debate.

Jeeny: firmly But Rizal didn’t believe in cycles — he believed in awakening. He believed that domination couldn’t last because truth eventually finds a way to rise.

Jack: smirking faintly Truth? Or just a new power pretending to be truth? Every rebellion becomes the next empire, every liberator becomes the next tyrant. Maybe what he called “yielding” is just the world resetting itself.

Jeeny: rising from her chair, her voice trembling with conviction You call that resetting? I call it surrender — the surrender of hope, of justice, of the idea that humanity can evolve beyond conquest.

Jack: quietly, almost sadly Maybe evolution itself is conquest, Jeeny. The strongest ideas, like the strongest species, survive — and everything else yields.

Host:
The candle flame wavered violently, casting shifting shadows that seemed to argue on the walls — silhouettes of old philosophers, warriors, and dreamers, forever debating in the afterlife of thought.

The sound of rain softened, becoming a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. The library seemed to breathe — slow, ancient, alive.

Jeeny: her voice quieter now But what if strength isn’t what we think it is? What if it’s not about domination, but about resistance — the courage to remain yourself, even when someone tries to erase you?

Jack: measured You mean the strength to lose gracefully?

Jeeny: shakes her head No. The strength to endure — to outlast without hatred. That’s what Rizal meant. When one people yields, it’s not always defeat. Sometimes it’s survival.

Jack: pauses, watching her You think submission can be victory?

Jeeny: softly, with fire When it preserves your identity, yes.

Host:
Her words hung in the air like incense — delicate, fragrant, but heavy with meaning. Jack studied her, the way one studies a language he used to speak but has forgotten.

The rain outside began to fade, leaving behind only the whisper of water sliding down stone.

Jack: quietly You talk about identity like it’s eternal. But even cultures die. Languages disappear, faiths fade. Sometimes the only way to survive is to change.

Jeeny: turning toward him, her eyes fierce No. The only way to truly die is to forget who you are.

Jack: leans forward, voice low And what if remembering keeps you trapped? What if the past becomes a prison, not a root?

Jeeny: smiles sadly Then it’s not the past that traps you, Jack — it’s your fear of what it might demand.

Host:
The silence after that was long and trembling. The candles flickered, their light now dim and golden, the kind that feels like the last breath of day before the night takes hold.

Outside, the clouds began to break, revealing a faint glow of moonlight spilling through the windows, painting the library floor in silver.

Jack: softly Maybe you’re right. Maybe every time we dominate, we lose a part of what makes us human. Maybe Rizal wasn’t talking about nations at all — maybe he was talking about souls.

Jeeny: nodding slowly He was. Because domination, whether of one people or one heart, always ends the same way — one has to yield, one has to succumb. But the tragedy isn’t who loses; it’s who forgets that both once believed they could coexist.

Jack: after a moment So you think coexistence is possible?

Jeeny: smiling faintly It has to be. Otherwise, history is just a long suicide note written by every generation that came before us.

Host:
The last candle went out, and for a brief instant, the darkness was total — thick, infinite, alive. But then the moonlight took its place, spilling through the cracks and arches, turning every shadow into something luminous.

Jack and Jeeny stood there in the half-light, surrounded by the silent testimony of centuries — the books, the maps, the words of men and women who had all tried, in their own way, to make sense of power and loss.

Jack: whispering “One of the two had to yield and succumb.” Maybe the secret is learning when to yield, and what not to.

Jeeny: softly Yes. Because sometimes yielding isn’t defeat — it’s wisdom. But when you yield your humanity, that’s when you truly succumb.

Host:
The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures, small against the vast cathedral of knowledge, the moonlight pouring over them like a silent benediction.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and the air was clear, the city’s lights reflected in puddles like the eyes of the past, watching, waiting, remembering.

And as the scene faded, only Rizal’s truth remained, whispering through the centuries —

That no power lasts forever,
no rule remains unbroken,
and that the truest victory in history
is not in domination,
but in endurance —
the quiet, unyielding faith of a people
who refuse to forget who they are.

Fade out.