I don't think nationalism is alone holding the field; it's in

Host: The city lay under a veil of rain, its neon lights bleeding down the wet pavement like paint. Cars hissed through the streets, and the sky, heavy with storm, seemed to press down on every building and soul below. In a small, narrow café, the kind where time feels like it lingers, two silhouettes sat across from each other.

Jack’s coat was still dripping, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched. Jeeny sat opposite, her hair damp, her eyes bright, and a thin steam from her tea rose like a ghost between them.

Host: The hour was late, but the conversation had only just begun — and like the rain, it would not stop easily.

Jeeny: “Peter Singer once said, ‘I don’t think nationalism is alone holding the field; it’s in contention with a lot of different things.’” She traced a finger along her cup’s rim, watching the liquid swirl. “He was right, Jack. The world isn’t bound by flags anymore. It’s held together — or pulled apart — by so many other forces: money, technology, culture, even fear.”

Jack: (with a low chuckle) “And yet people still kill for a flag, Jeeny. That’s the difference. The old gods might have fallen, but nationalism — that tribal instinct — it’s still the strongest drug of all. We might talk about being global citizens, but the moment a border is threatened, everyone remembers their tribe.”

Host: The rain hammered harder against the window, as though the sky itself wanted to argue.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because people have forgotten what’s worth being loyal to. Nationalism fills a void. When politicians fail, when communities crumble, people cling to something that feels like belonging.”

Jack: “So you’re saying it’s not ideology, it’s therapy?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “In a way, yes. A collective therapy session that’s gotten out of hand. But that’s not all there is anymore. Look at how people unite online — not by nation, but by cause. Climate activists, human rights groups, digital movements. They’re forming a new kind of identity, one that transcends borders.”

Jack: “And yet, most of them still march under a flag — even if it’s a rainbow one.”

Host: Jack’s words carried a sting, but not cruelty — more like the weariness of a man who’d seen too many ideals crumble into propaganda.

Jeeny: “Symbols don’t have to be weapons, Jack. They can be bridges. When you see that flag, you know someone else believes what you believe. That’s not tribalism — that’s connection.”

Jack: “But the line between the two is razor-thin, Jeeny. Every bridge can become a barricade. Every cause can turn into a cult. Look at the French Revolution — liberty became tyranny in a heartbeat. Look at the Cold War — ideology divided families. You can call it connection; I call it the same old bloodlust, just rebranded.”

Host: A bus passed outside, its headlights briefly washing the café in white light. The momentary brightness made their faces stark — Jack’s lined with tension, Jeeny’s soft but resolute.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like hope is just a more decorated form of madness.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Every generation believes it’s finally evolved beyond tribe, and yet here we are. The flags just have hashtags now.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “But they’re also global, Jack. When a child suffers in Gaza, when a forest burns in Brazil, when a woman is silenced in Iran, people from every corner of the world rise. Isn’t that a kind of solidarity that nationalism could never produce?”

Jack: “Sure, they rise — they tweet, they donate, they post. Then they go back to Netflix. You call it solidarity; I call it simulation. We’ve replaced the flag with a screen, and outrage with a click.”

Host: The air in the café had grown heavy, the fog of breath and steam clouding the glass. For a moment, their faces blurred, as if the world itself couldn’t decide which side to focus on.

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong about the noise, Jack. But you underestimate the seeds it plants. Revolutions have always started with words, not weapons. The printing press, the radio, the internet — every medium gave birth to a new awareness. That’s what Singer meant. Nationalism is still there, but now it’s sharing the field with ideas that are bigger, more complex, more interconnected.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “So you think the future belongs to ideas, not nations?”

Jeeny: “I think it belongs to conscience. To the realization that we’re not just citizens of countries, but of a planet that’s on fire. That our survival depends on what we choose to care about.”

Host: A moment of silence fell. Outside, the rain softened, turning from anger to whisper. The café’s lights flickered, and in that fragile glow, their eyes met.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, Jeeny. But tell me — when the next war breaks out, when the next border closes, when people are told their nation is in danger — will they still choose planet over pride?”

Jeeny: “Some won’t. But some will. That’s the contention Singer spoke of — the battlefield isn’t out there anymore; it’s inside us. Between the instinct to divide and the impulse to unite.”

Host: Jack’s hand relaxed around his cup, the steam now gone cold. His eyes lowered, searching the wood grain of the table as if it might hold an answer.

Jack: “You always talk about the heart as if it can override history.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it does. Think of the European Union, built after the worst wars the continent ever knew. Think of the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions in South Africa, where people chose forgiveness over vengeance. History isn’t just about what we’ve done; it’s about what we learn not to do again.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the strength beneath it was undeniable. Jack looked up, the edges of his stoicism crumbling under her words.

Jack: “Maybe nationalism isn’t dying — maybe it’s just… negotiating its relevance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s contending — not with enemies, but with alternatives. The question isn’t whether it will survive, but whether we’ll let it evolve.”

Host: A thunderclap rumbled in the distance, followed by the soft patter of raindrops that began to fade. The streetlights outside reflected in the wet glass, their light breaking into a thousand fragments — like nations, like people, like truths.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe one day, Jack, we’ll realize that the only true flag worth raising is the one that has no borders.”

Jack: “And maybe one day, Jeeny, we’ll realize that even borders have their reasons.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps the answer is not to erase them, but to understand them.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air grew still. Somewhere, a train horn echoed in the distance, like a reminder that everything — even division — is still moving.

Host: Jack smiled, almost imperceptibly, and Jeeny mirrored him. The conversation had not ended; it had merely shifted, like weather changing over a restless ocean.

Host: And as they sat in the fading light, one could almost believe that the world, for all its flags and fears, was still learning — slowly, painfully — how to belong to itself.