However, democracy cannot be defined as the existence of

Host: The rain had been falling since afternoon, steady and unrelenting, turning the streets into mirrors of light and motion. Inside the small bistro, the air was heavy with the scent of coffee, ink, and wet umbrellas drying by the door. The television behind the counter murmured the news — images of parliaments, crowds, and flags flashing briefly across the screen before fading into a commercial.

At a corner table, Jack sat with his notebook open, his handwriting precise and orderly, every line deliberate. Jeeny arrived with her usual quiet grace, shaking the rain from her hair, her coat still glistening. She smiled faintly before sitting down opposite him.

Jeeny: “You look like a man writing a manifesto.”

Jack: “No manifesto. Just thoughts. Frustrations, maybe. I was reading something earlier — a quote by Recep Tayyip Erdoğan: ‘However, democracy cannot be defined as the existence of parliaments and elections alone.’”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed, intrigued. She lifted her cup, blowing lightly over the steam.

Jeeny: “He’s right, you know. Democracy is not about institutions — it’s about spirit. It’s about people believing their voices matter.”

Jack: “That’s the romantic version. The truth is, democracy has become a theater. We vote, we debate, we hold elections — and yet power doesn’t move. The stage changes, but the actors are the same.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter, Jack.”

Jack: “Realistic. Look at it. Parliaments exist in almost every country now — even the ones that imprison dissenters. Elections are held everywhere — even when the result is decided long before the first ballot is cast. We’ve mistaken the appearance of democracy for its existence.”

Host: The rain tightened, a drumming rhythm against the windowpane. A car passed, splashing through a puddle, its lights briefly cutting across their faces.

Jeeny: “But democracy is a living thing, Jack. It’s not perfect because people aren’t perfect. Yes, some leaders abuse it, twist it, wear it like a mask. But that doesn’t mean the idea itself is dead.”

Jack: “Maybe not dead — but hijacked. When people vote without power, when parliaments exist without courage, democracy becomes performance art. You can’t call it freedom just because there’s a ballot box.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t call it tyranny just because it’s flawed. Democracy, at its heart, is the act of participation — the stubborn belief that even if the system is broken, we still have a role in mending it.”

Host: Jack closed his notebook, his hand tapping lightly on the cover. His eyes, grey and sharp, met hers with quiet challenge.

Jack: “Participation doesn’t mean control. People participate in illusions every day. They vote, they speak, they protest — and still, nothing changes. Remember Egypt after 2011? Millions took to the streets. They voted, they believed. And within two years, the generals were back.”

Jeeny: “History doesn’t move in straight lines, Jack. Every failure plants a seed. Egypt, Tunisia, Hong Kong — the world keeps learning. Change doesn’t always win immediately. But it leaves echoes. People remember.”

Jack: “Echoes don’t make constitutions. Memories don’t change laws. We romanticize rebellion, but what matters is what stays after the dust settles. And what usually stays — is power, dressed in new colors.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes steady, burning with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “Then what do you want, Jack? Perfection? A democracy without corruption, without lies, without pain? That’s not democracy — that’s mythology. Democracy is the fight itself. It’s messy, it’s painful, it fails more than it succeeds, but it keeps trying.”

Jack: “So failure becomes virtue?”

Jeeny: “No. But endurance does. Democracy isn’t about the systems we build — it’s about whether we refuse to let them define us. A parliament without truth is a shell. But a people without hope is a grave.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft yet unyielding. Outside, the rain began to slow, leaving trails on the window like tears that had finally learned to rest.

Jack: “You think hope can fix it? Hope doesn’t write policy. Hope doesn’t feed the poor, or protect the weak, or limit power.”

Jeeny: “Neither does despair. But hope keeps people standing long enough to do those things. Every revolution began with someone believing it could be better.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered — the first sign of doubt in his own certainty. He lit a cigarette, the smoke coiling between them like a slow-moving question.

Jack: “I used to believe in that — when I was younger. I thought democracy was a covenant between people and power. Now I think it’s just a negotiation — and the powerful always get the better deal.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still write? Why care? You could’ve walked away long ago.”

Jack: “Because I’m addicted to disappointment.”

Jeeny: “No — because deep down, you still believe in the covenant. You still believe that truth means something, even when no one listens.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jeeny’s lips, the kind that hides both pain and faith. Jack exhaled, his gaze softening, the smoke trailing toward the ceiling like surrender.

Jack: “Maybe democracy isn’t what we think it is. Maybe it’s not about governments at all. Maybe it’s about the daily act of disagreement — the right to say ‘no’ and still be allowed to stay.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not parliaments or ballots that define democracy — it’s the space between them. It’s the ability to argue without being silenced, to protest without disappearing.”

Host: The television flickered again, showing footage of a protest in some distant city. The crowd was small but fierce, faces lit by flares and conviction.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Every government claims to be democratic now — even the cruel ones. The word has lost its meaning.”

Jeeny: “No. The word hasn’t lost meaning — people have lost memory. When we forget what democracy costs — the blood, the exile, the fear — we start accepting its counterfeit. True democracy is never comfortable.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the problem. People don’t want democracy. They want comfort. Bread. Security. Not philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s up to us to remind them that freedom is a hunger too — the kind that never goes away, even when the belly is full.”

Host: The clock struck nine. The bistro had emptied, leaving only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the muted heartbeat of the rain. Jack looked at Jeeny — not as an opponent now, but as someone standing on the same side of a broken wall.

Jack: “So maybe Erdoğan was right. Democracy can’t be defined by parliaments or elections. Maybe it can’t even be defined at all. Maybe it can only be lived — and lost — and fought for again.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the point. Democracy isn’t something we have — it’s something we do. Every day. Every choice. Every argument that keeps the truth alive.”

Host: The rain had finally stopped. The sky outside was clearing, the lights of the city flickering against the wet pavement. Jack closed his notebook, sliding it aside. Jeeny rose, her hand brushing his shoulder as she passed.

For a moment, he stayed still — then looked out the window, watching his own reflection blur into the city’s shimmer.

Somewhere between the noise of power and the silence of fear, democracy breathed — fragile, imperfect, but alive.