I feel that our attitude to our borders is wrong; it's the first

Host: The train station was nearly empty — that rare hour between the last rush of evening commuters and the first whisper of night travelers. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering softly against the cool marble floors. The sound of a single violin drifted from the far end of the platform, haunting and tender — an old man playing for coins that glimmered like lost hope in his open case.

Jack stood near the vending machine, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. His suitcase leaned against the wall, a single scuff on its corner like the memory of too many journeys. Jeeny sat on a bench across from him, a travel mug in hand, her eyes fixed on the arrivals board flashing delays and cancellations.

Behind her, someone had pinned a folded newspaper to the bulletin board, and a quote — bold, unmissable — was circled in pen:

“I feel that our attitude to our borders is wrong; it’s the first time that an awful lot of people think you can and should just close your border and remain in this splendid isolation.”
— Jeremy Hardy

Jeeny: “He said that years ago. And now it feels like prophecy.”

Jack: “Yeah. Back then it sounded political. Now it sounds… personal.”

Host: The violin faltered, then caught itself again — a melody struggling between beauty and dissonance. The air was heavy with that same tension — the kind that hangs between ideals and reality.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how borders are never just on maps anymore? They’re in our heads. In our hearts.”

Jack: “They’re everywhere we draw lines — who we trust, who we fear, who we think deserves to stand next to us.”

Jeeny: “And who we think doesn’t.”

Host: She took a sip of her drink, her hands trembling just slightly, as though holding more than warmth — maybe frustration, maybe longing.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe they can come down.”

Jeeny: “Of course they can. They always do. History’s just a pendulum between walls and bridges.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like we’re stuck on the wall side again?”

Jeeny: “Because fear’s an easy sell, Jack. You tell people the world’s dangerous, and they’ll build fences to feel safe. You tell them the world’s shared, and they’ll ask for receipts.”

Host: A low announcement echoed over the loudspeakers — the last train delayed indefinitely. The voice sounded distant, almost apologetic, as though even the system was tired of excuses.

Jack: “Maybe Hardy was too optimistic. Maybe isolation’s not splendid, but it’s simple. People crave simple.”

Jeeny: “Simple isn’t the same as right.”

Jack: “It’s survival.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s surrender.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but the fire beneath it was unmistakable. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her dark eyes catching the sterile light with defiance.

Jeeny: “Think about it. Every time humanity got scared, we closed doors — and every time we opened them again, we called it progress. You can’t shut the world out and still expect to understand it.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people who lost their jobs, their safety, their homes because the world got too open.”

Jeeny: “And tell them that closing the world won’t bring any of it back. You can’t fix fear by shrinking your field of vision.”

Host: The violinist stopped. The silence he left behind felt heavier than the music itself — the kind that reminded everyone what absence truly sounded like.

Jack: “You know what I think the problem is? People confuse protection with isolation. They think guarding what’s theirs means rejecting everything else.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we’ve taught them to equate identity with defense. But identity isn’t about keeping others out — it’s about knowing yourself well enough to let others in.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Or at least, it should be.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled through the station, tugging at discarded receipts and newspapers, one of them slapping against Jeeny’s ankle. She bent down and picked it up — a border control headline, bold and grim: “Nation Tightens Entry Laws Amid Rising Fear.”

Jeeny: “See? Fear writes better headlines than hope.”

Jack: “Yeah, but hope pays fewer bills.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s priceless.”

Host: She smiled faintly, folding the newspaper and setting it aside, as if laying a weary thought to rest. Jack watched her — skeptical, but listening.

Jack: “You know, Hardy called it ‘splendid isolation.’ I think that’s the cruelest phrase ever invented. Isolation’s never splendid — it’s sterile. It’s the absence of friction. And friction’s where all growth comes from.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Without friction, there’s no fire.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who still believes humanity’s redeemable.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because even when we build walls, we always leave cracks — and light always finds a way through.”

Host: The train board flickered again, then went dark. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft rain beginning outside, tapping on the station roof like distant applause.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange it is — we live in an age of connection, but we’re more divided than ever?”

Jeeny: “That’s because connection without compassion is just noise.”

Jack: “And compassion doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “No. But it transforms.”

Host: Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost beneath the growing rain.

Jeeny: “Hardy was right — closing borders, closing hearts, it’s all the same mistake. We call it security, but it’s really just fear dressed as pride.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We keep the doors open, even when it rains.”

Host: Jack laughed softly — not mocking, just weary. He picked up his suitcase and walked to the window, watching the raindrops bead and race down the glass.

Jack: “You know, I used to think nations were like homes — you had to protect them, keep them clean, keep strangers out. But maybe they’re more like gardens. You can’t lock a garden and expect it to bloom.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re the poet.”

Jack: “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

Host: The violinist began again — slower this time, gentler, as if he, too, had found a kind of peace in the quiet rebellion of beauty.

Jeeny stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Jeeny: “Come on, philosopher. The night’s long, and the world’s not going to open itself.”

Jack: “And where are we going?”

Jeeny: “Anywhere the border isn’t the first question.”

Host: They walked toward the platform, side by side, two silhouettes dissolving into the mist of rain and movement. The old man’s violin followed them — a farewell, a benediction, a bridge made of sound.

And as they stepped into the next moment, Jeremy Hardy’s words lingered in the air — soft, persistent, luminous:

that isolation may feel safe,
but it starves the soul;

that borders, whether drawn on maps or in hearts,
exist to be crossed;

and that the world, for all its noise and fear,
still belongs to those who dare
to believe in connection
over comfort,
and in the stubborn, radiant truth
that openness is not weakness —
it is the last great act of courage.