I had been a Maoist, and then when the Gang of Four was

Host: The rain fell like ash that night — slow, silent, unforgiving. The city was muted, its lights bending through fog like tired prayers. Inside a dimly lit apartment, books lined every wall, their spines leaning like soldiers after a war.

Jack sat by the window, a cigarette burning in his hand, the smoke curling into shapes that never lasted. Across from him, Jeeny poured tea into two cracked cups, her movements slow, reverent, like she was handling memory itself.

There was music playing softly — an old Chinese melody, haunting, thin, woven with nostalgia and loss.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘I had been a Maoist, and then when the Gang of Four was overthrown, I was completely distraught. I was bedridden for three weeks; it was a very painful experience for me. Not only because I had been wrong, but because I felt really embarrassed that I had been lecturing and pontificating with such self-confidence.’ Norman Finkelstein.”

Host: Jack exhaled, the smoke drifting upward like confession. His face was half in shadow, half illuminated by the streetlight that flickered outside — a metaphor the night itself seemed to understand.

Jack: “I get it. That feeling of being wrong, not just factually, but morally. It crushes you. Especially when you’ve stood on a soapbox, convinced the world was yours to enlighten.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jack: (smirking bitterly) “Haven’t we all? You believe in something so hard that it defines you — then one crack in the foundation, and your whole identity collapses. Finkelstein wasn’t just mourning Maoism. He was mourning the self he’d built around it.”

Host: Jeeny sat, her eyes reflecting the amber light. Outside, a horn echoed in the distance, the sound stretching like a memory trying to survive the present.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the price of conviction? You can’t stand for something true unless you risk being wrong. Finkelstein’s pain was the shadow of his sincerity. He believed — completely — and that’s rare.”

Jack: “Or dangerous. That kind of certainty — it blinds you. That’s how movements collapse, how leaders become tyrants. Maoism wasn’t just an idea; it was a faith that devoured millions. And yet, Finkelstein — a man of intellect, conscience — still fell for it. That’s what scares me.”

Host: The clock ticked, each second dropping like a stone into still water. The room felt small, as if truth itself had shrunk to fit between two confessions.

Jeeny: “He was young, Jack. The sixties, the seventies — that era burned with ideals. People were hungry for justice, for meaning. They saw Mao not as a dictator, but as a symbol of rebellion against imperialism, inequality, capitalist rot. Finkelstein wasn’t blind — he was hopeful. And hope… is the most fragile kind of faith.”

Jack: “Hope is a drug. It numbs you to reality. You think you’re seeing a revolution, but you’re really just watching a myth bloom and rot.”

Jeeny: “Then what — should we never believe in anything? Should we never commit? Should we stand on the sidelines, snickering at those who dare to care?”

Host: The air between them tightened. The tea steamed, fogging the space like the breath of an argument not yet born.

Jack: “No. But we should learn from our illusions. That’s the lesson Finkelstein embodied — not the shame of being wrong, but the humility of knowing how wrong one can be. He wasn’t just embarrassed — he was reborn through that embarrassment.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But pain like that doesn’t rebirth you; it wounds you forever. Imagine lecturing, preaching, writing with the conviction that you were right, only to wake up and realize you were spreading a lie. That’s not just humility — that’s existential collapse.”

Host: The rain beat harder now, rattling against the glass like truths demanding to be let in. Jack stared, his reflection fractured by the droplets.

Jack: “Yeah. But isn’t that collapse what creates the philosopher? The ones who’ve never doubted, who’ve never fallen — they’re just fanatics with vocabulary. Real thinkers are forged in the fire of their own mistakes.”

Jeeny: “You sound almost… forgiving.”

Jack: (quietly) “I envy him, actually. To believe that deeply, to fall that hard — that’s a kind of honesty I don’t have anymore.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice low, measured, like the sea calming after a storm.

Jeeny: “You do, Jack. You just hide it behind skepticism. That’s your armor. But even you believe in something — in truth, in integrity. That’s why you can’t stand hypocrisy.”

Jack: “Believing in truth isn’t the same as believing in people. I’ve seen too many ideals rot the moment they touch human hands. Look at Maoism, Marxism, religion, nationalism — all born from hope, all ending in blood.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without them, the world would be numb, directionless. We need our myths, Jack — even if only to outgrow them. Finkelstein’s grief proves that we’re capable of learning, not just believing.”

Host: The light in the room shifted, the rain easing into a soft patter. There was a tremor in the air, like the moment between forgiveness and understanding.

Jack: “You think there’s redemption in being wrong?”

Jeeny: “If there’s honesty in the regret, yes. The arrogance of certainty is the real sin. But the humility of disillusionment — that’s the beginning of wisdom.”

Host: Jack set down his cigarette, its ember dying with a small sigh of smoke. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, they were both silent — not out of disagreement, but out of shared exhaustion.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We always talk about the pain of being wrong, but not the pain of being right — when being right means you’ve lost the dream you believed in.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truest pain there is. The intellectual heartbreak. The death of a belief that once gave your life its shape.”

Host: The music had stopped, but the silence it left behind sang louder. Outside, the rain thinned, and a faint dawn broke through the clouds, coloring the bookshelves with pale light.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he was bedridden — not from shame, but from mourning. Mourning the world he thought he understood.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why he rose again — because truth, even when it hurts, is still the cleanest pain there is.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing the room — the books, the tea, the fading smoke — a small universe of thought and repentance.

Jack and Jeeny sat in the pale light, two souls who had both believed too much once, and had survived the collapse of that belief.

In the quiet, Finkelstein’s words echoed like a prayer for every thinker, every dreamer, every fallen believer —

“Not only because I had been wrong, but because I felt really embarrassed that I had been lecturing and pontificating with such self-confidence.”

And as the light spread, it was clear — sometimes the greatest truth isn’t in being right, but in having the courage to face how wrong you once were.