I fear that our true motivation is about oil and our own flailing

Host: The night was thick with smoke and memory, the kind that clings to the air long after the guns have gone silent. The bar sat on the edge of the city, its windows fogged by rain, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. Inside, music hummed low — an old blues record, weary and honest. Jack sat at the corner table, a glass of whiskey before him, his grey eyes shadowed by the dim light. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her hands trembling slightly, her eyes deep pools of thought.

Host: Outside, the rain whispered against the streets like an endless confession. The television behind the bar showed silent footage — soldiers, oil fields, burning sand, and crowds waving flags. The caption read: “Ten years since the war began.”

Jeeny: “You know, every time they show those images, I feel a knot in my chest. We said it was about freedom, about justice — but look at it, Jack. The quote says it all: ‘I fear that our true motivation is about oil and our own flailing economy; about the failure to destroy Al Qaeda and about revenge.’ I think Dave Matthews was right. It was never just about justice. It was about power — and the fear of losing it.”

Jack: (leans back, his jaw tight) “Fear, power — they’re just parts of the same machine, Jeeny. You talk like the world runs on virtue. It doesn’t. It runs on interests. Every nation, every leader, every decision — it’s all about survival. You think Rome expanded because of moral duty? No. It was economy, resources, and revenge. Same with us.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the sharp line of Jack’s face. He looked like a statue carved from reason, unmoved by sentiment. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice quiet but trembling with anger.

Jeeny: “So you justify it? The bombings, the children, the endless wars — all under the banner of survival? That’s not logic, Jack. That’s cowardice wearing a suit.”

Jack: (coldly) “Don’t twist my words. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying it’s real. You want to believe we went into those wars for freedom, but the world doesn’t move for ideals. It moves for oil, trade, security. You call it greed; I call it necessity.”

Host: The sound of rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof like a muted war drum. Jeeny’s eyes glistened with a soft, dangerous light.

Jeeny: “Necessity? Tell that to the families in Baghdad, or the soldiers who came home shattered. We built our own monsters, Jack. We fed on revenge, told ourselves it was justice. The failure to destroy Al Qaeda wasn’t the real wound — it was the failure to see what we were becoming.”

Jack: “And what were we becoming, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “A mirror of the very hate we claimed to fight.”

Host: Silence hung between them, thick and fragile. The bartender wiped the counter, pretending not to listen. Outside, a car horn echoed and faded. The television showed an oil rig, flames licking the sky like greedy tongues.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know what I fear more than our motives? I fear our ignorance. Everyone wants a simple story. The good guys versus the bad guys. Freedom versus terror. But the truth — it’s a web. Oil keeps the world running, Jeeny. Without it, your lights, your coffee, your comfort — all gone. People talk about peace, but no one’s willing to give up their cars, their flights, their cheap goods.”

Jeeny: “So we keep killing for comfort?”

Jack: “No. We keep fighting for what keeps us alive.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “That’s just the oldest lie in the book. The Romans said the same thing when they slaughtered half the world — they called it ‘civilization.’ The British Empire said it when they took India — they called it ‘progress.’ And we say it now — ‘security.’ But it’s always the same story: power dressed up as purpose.”

Host: Her voice rose, trembling but fierce. The bar’s soft music faltered as if the old record could feel the tension. Jack’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in something close to regret.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we lied. But tell me — what’s the alternative? You think the world can run on hope? On good intentions? People are driven by fear, Jeeny. Always have been. 9/11 burned that into us. After that, revenge wasn’t just a motive — it was a reflex.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And that’s the tragedy, Jack. That we let fear make us monsters. You remember the Iraq invasion — how they said there were weapons of mass destruction? There weren’t. But we still marched in, because it made us feel strong again. That’s not survival. That’s madness disguised as policy.”

Host: The clock ticked above them, each second like a hammer striking the truth between their words. Jack’s hands tightened around his glass, the ice melting into the amber liquid. He finally spoke, softer now.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was about oil. Maybe it was about revenge. But I was there when the towers fell, Jeeny. I saw the ash cover the streets like snow. People screaming, running — their whole worlds collapsing. You don’t come back from that believing in innocence.”

Jeeny: (her voice breaking) “And I was there when the first body bags came home, Jack. The sons of people who didn’t even know where Iraq was. I saw their mothers at the airport, holding pictures and saying prayers into the wind. You think they cared about oil? No. They just wanted their children to come home.”

Host: The rain softened, became a delicate mist against the window. Their voices dropped to a near-whisper, as if the world outside was finally listening.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what this whole thing is — a cycle of wounds. One side bleeds, the other strikes back. Nobody remembers who started it.”

Jeeny: “And everyone forgets who suffers.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The record had stopped, leaving only the soft hum of electric light. The air smelled of whiskey, wet asphalt, and something tender — like forgiveness beginning to form.

Jack: “So what now? We can’t change what we did.”

Jeeny: “No. But we can change how we remember it. Maybe the only redemption left is to tell the truth — not the story of heroes, but of humans. Of what fear does when it wears the mask of righteousness.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. His eyes — once sharp as blades — softened with something weary, almost human. The rain stopped completely. Outside, the streetlights reflected in shallow puddles, each one a trembling mirror of the world they had just confessed to.

Jack: “You always want the heart to win, don’t you?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I just want it to survive.”

Host: He laughed — not mockingly, but with a kind of broken warmth. The bar felt lighter, the air less burdened. They sat in silence, listening to the faint hum of a city trying to breathe again.

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a sliver of moonlight. It fell across their faces — two people, bruised by their own convictions, but sharing the same quiet understanding. The war may never end out there, in deserts or boardrooms, but here — in this small corner of the world — truth had finally found a place to rest.