I chose America as my home because I value freedom and democracy

Host: The rain had just stopped. The city smelled of wet asphalt, coffee, and late-night electricity. Inside a narrow diner on the corner of 12th and Grant, the lights buzzed with a tired hum. It was almost midnight. The streets were mostly empty except for a few taxi headlights cutting through the mist.

Jack sat in a booth by the window, a half-finished burger untouched, the steam from his coffee rising like a lazy ghost. Jeeny sat across from him, tracing the rim of her cup with one finger, her hair damp from the rain. Outside, a neon sign flickered in fractured rhythm — OPEN ALL NIGHT — like a promise too tired to keep.

The radio murmured in the background, an interview replaying a familiar voice — George Soros — talking about his life and why he chose America.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘I chose America as my home because I value freedom and democracy, civil liberties and an open society.’”

Host: Her voice was quiet, almost reverent, but not naïve. It carried the weight of someone who wanted to believe — and had been disappointed enough times to know belief comes with scars.

Jack: “Freedom and democracy,” he muttered, stirring his coffee with a spoon that clinked against the ceramic. “Nice words. They sound like the slogans on campaign posters. But try telling that to someone who can’t afford healthcare, or to the immigrant stuck in detention waiting for a miracle visa.”

Jeeny: “You always go straight for the wounds, don’t you?”

Jack: “They’re the only things that bleed truth.”

Host: A truck rumbled by outside, its headlights dragging pale lines of light across their faces. Jack’s eyes, cold and sharp, looked like steel catching sparks. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her gaze steady.

Jeeny: “You think Soros didn’t know the flaws? He survived the Nazis, Jack. He saw what happens when societies stop valuing freedom. When fear becomes law. He didn’t say America was perfect — he said he chose it. Because even imperfect freedom is better than perfect control.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but I’ve seen how ‘freedom’ gets weaponized. Everyone talks about liberty until it threatens their comfort. The same people who preach democracy will build walls the moment it’s tested.”

Jeeny: “You’re right — some do. But isn’t that the point of an open society? That it allows us to challenge it, criticize it, and still belong to it? That’s the paradox of freedom, Jack — it demands constant work.”

Host: The diners’ clock ticked, the rain started again, tapping softly on the glass like a steady heartbeat. Jack stared out the window, his reflection blending with the blurred city lights.

Jack: “Work, huh? Tell that to the janitor who cleans this place every night. Or to the soldier who came back home and can’t find a job. Freedom’s expensive, Jeeny. It’s built on someone else’s exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they still get to speak. Still get to vote. Still get to protest. That’s not nothing, Jack. That’s the heartbeat of the very thing you’re dismissing. You think democracy’s supposed to be fair — but it’s not supposed to be easy.”

Jack: “So we settle for chaos and call it liberty?”

Jeeny: “No. We navigate the chaos because we’d rather drown in choice than suffocate in obedience.”

Host: Her words struck the air like thunder — not loud, but certain. Jack looked at her for a long moment, then laughed — a short, tired sound, like a man who admired the fire but doubted its warmth.

Jack: “You talk like freedom’s a faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But it’s one we get to interpret for ourselves.”

Host: The light from the neon sign flickered again, washing their faces in alternating shades of pink and blue. The rain deepened, each drop streaking the glass with silver.

Jeeny: “My grandfather used to tell me stories about his village — small, cold, tucked somewhere under Soviet control. People vanished for speaking their minds. My grandmother kept her Bible under the floorboards. When she came here, she cried the first time she voted. She said, ‘This paper is heavier than a rifle.’ That’s what Soros meant. Freedom isn’t about comfort. It’s about voice.”

Jack: “Voice doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But silence costs more.”

Host: The clock ticked again. The waitress walked by, refilling their cups. The steam curled upward between them, softening the edges of their faces.

Jack: “You sound like someone who still believes America can be what it says it is.”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the alternative? If everyone stops believing, we end up with the same ghosts Soros ran from — just wearing new flags.”

Jack: “You think this country’s still the land of freedom? You think people like us get a say anymore?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even the act of asking that question proves we do.”

Host: The air thickened with quiet, that intimate kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the weight of their words. Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle. The city lights softened, their reflections trembling like candle flames.

Jack: “You ever wonder if freedom’s just another illusion — something we tell ourselves to make chaos tolerable?”

Jeeny: “If it is, it’s the only illusion worth defending. Because the moment we stop, someone else will rewrite what freedom means — and it won’t include us.”

Host: Her words lingered. Jack’s gaze dropped to his hands, rough and tense. He rubbed a thumb across his knuckle, as though trying to erase something invisible.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? For all my cynicism… I still want to believe you’re right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you already do. You just won’t admit it yet.”

Host: The waitress turned the radio down. The diner grew quiet, except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the far-off splash of tires through puddles. The world outside was a blur of rainlight and motion, but inside, the stillness felt sacred.

Jack: “So maybe that’s what Soros meant — not that America is free, but that it’s a place where freedom can still be fought for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Freedom isn’t a trophy; it’s a verb.”

Host: He looked at her then, something soft flickering in his eyes — recognition, maybe, or surrender. The kind of moment where belief sneaks back in, quietly, like light after a storm.

Jack: “You always manage to make idealism sound reasonable.”

Jeeny: “No. I just remind you it’s still possible.”

Host: The rain had stopped for good now. The sky cleared, leaving streaks of pale moonlight on the wet pavement. Jack pushed his plate aside and stood, sliding a few bills onto the table.

Jack: “Come on. Let’s get some air. The night’s too free to waste indoors.”

Jeeny smiled, gathering her coat, her eyes catching the faint glow of the street outside.

Jeeny: “You see? You do believe — even if you don’t call it that.”

Host: They stepped out into the night, the city breathing around them — wide, imperfect, alive. The air was cool, the sky open. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sang; somewhere else, a laugh echoed from an unseen window.

And for a moment, the world felt exactly as Soros meant it — flawed, noisy, divided — but still free.

Still worth choosing.