I know that war and mayhem run in our blood. I refuse to believe

Host: The city was drenched in rain, the kind that fell slow, heavy, and steady, as if the sky itself were tired. A neon sign flickered outside a small bar, casting streaks of red and blue across the wet pavement. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the faint hum of a saxophone playing from an old speaker.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his coat collar turned up, a half-finished glass of whiskey before him. His grey eyes stared out the window, following the shadows that moved like ghosts in the rain.

Across from him sat Jeeny, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, her dark eyes glinting with that calm, fiery patience she carried like armor.

A copy of an old newspaper lay between them — its front page screaming of another conflict, another city burning.

Jeeny: (softly) “Donella Meadows once said, ‘I know that war and mayhem run in our blood. I refuse to believe that they must dominate our lives. We humans are animals, too, but animals with amazing powers of rationality, morality, society. We can use our strength and courage not to savage each other, but to defend our highest purposes.’”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the low murmur of the bar like a beam of light through fog.

Jack didn’t look up immediately. He just exhaled — a slow, deliberate breath that carried both weariness and memory.

Jack: “Idealistic words. Beautiful, sure. But naive.”

Jeeny: “You always say that when you don’t want to feel something.”

Jack: “Because feeling doesn’t change the nature of things. War isn’t just in our blood — it’s the pulse of civilization. Every empire was born through conquest. Every peace was enforced by a sword.”

Jeeny: “And every sword was eventually buried by the same hands that forged it.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter in silence, the faint clink of glasses punctuating their words. A group of men laughed near the jukebox — loud, careless, alive — the kind of laughter that only exists when people pretend not to remember the world outside.

Jeeny: “Donella wasn’t denying what we are, Jack. She was reminding us what we could be. We are animals, yes — but animals who can choose.”

Jack: “You think choice saves us? Every man who ever went to war believed he was choosing something noble — freedom, justice, survival. But it always ends the same way: fire and graves.”

Jeeny: “That’s not choice, that’s blindness. Real choice requires reflection — courage of a different kind.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “You talk about courage like it’s some moral luxury. But tell me, Jeeny — what would you do if someone pointed a gun at the person you love? You’d fight. You’d kill if you had to. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Host: His voice was low now, almost trembling beneath its calm — the tone of someone who had seen too much and hated remembering it.

Jeeny: “Yes, I’d fight. But I’d fight for love, not out of hatred. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “That’s just semantics. Blood’s blood.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Intent shapes the soul. The same fire that destroys can also warm. It’s not the fire — it’s the hand that holds it.”

Host: The rain intensified, hitting the windows like a thousand tiny fists. A distant siren wailed, long and low, dissolving into the night.

Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for his glass.

Jack: “You think humanity can ever be peaceful? We’ve been killing each other since the dawn of time. The only thing that changes is the weapons.”

Jeeny: “And the awareness. Once, we didn’t know better. Now, we do — and that’s everything. The first step toward peace is realizing war isn’t inevitable.”

Jack: “Then why do we keep repeating it?”

Jeeny: “Because we confuse power with purpose. We think domination proves existence. But strength isn’t about control — it’s about restraint.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes gleamed under the bar’s dim light, her voice calm, unwavering. Jack stared at her — searching, resisting, but drawn in despite himself.

Jack: “You think reason can tame instinct?”

Jeeny: “Reason, no. But compassion can.”

Jack: “Compassion’s fragile. It dies first in every battlefield.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s the only thing that rebuilds what war destroys.”

Host: A long silence. The kind that deepens rather than ends. The jazz on the radio shifted — a melancholy trumpet, slow and deliberate.

Jack leaned back, his gaze distant, lost somewhere between the flicker of the neon and the reflection of his own face in the window.

Jack: “When I was stationed overseas, there was a boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. He used to sneak near the perimeter fence to trade cigarettes for chocolate. One night, he didn’t come back. Next morning, there was shellfire. The fence was gone. So was he.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And you still think peace is impossible?”

Jack: “I think peace is a luxury we can’t afford. Not when people like that boy get crushed between the gears of history.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s exactly why we have to believe in it. Otherwise, what’s the point of surviving?”

Host: Her words landed gently, but their truth hit like thunder. Jack looked down at his hands, the veins standing out like wires beneath skin.

Jeeny: “You see only what’s broken, Jack. But you forget — we’re the only species that mourns, the only one that rebuilds, the only one that writes poems after burying its dead. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Jack: (quietly) “It counts. But it doesn’t erase the blood.”

Jeeny: “No. It dignifies it. That’s what Donella meant — using our strength not to savage, but to defend. Defend beauty, art, love, memory. The things that war tries to erase.”

Host: A single bolt of lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the drenched streets in white silence for one suspended second.

Jeeny’s hand reached across the table — slowly, without words — and rested on Jack’s. He didn’t pull away.

Jack: (softly) “You really think we can change what’s in our blood?”

Jeeny: “Not erase it. Transform it. The same blood that fuels rage can also sustain courage. The same instinct to kill can drive us to protect.”

Jack: “You make it sound like redemption.”

Jeeny: “It is. The quiet kind. The one that happens inside before it ever happens out there.”

Host: The music faded. The rain softened. For the first time, the silence between them wasn’t burdened — it was alive.

Jack looked at the newspaper again. The headlines still screamed of violence, but somehow, the words felt smaller now — almost hollow against the echo of Jeeny’s voice.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe survival isn’t the point. Maybe purpose is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The strength to defend, not destroy. The courage to protect, not dominate. That’s the highest purpose.”

Host: They sat there as the rain dwindled into a soft mist, the neon light reflecting faintly off the puddles outside — like remnants of old battles slowly fading.

Jeeny took a slow sip of her tea, her eyes distant, serene. Jack stared at her for a long time, then finally — just barely — smiled.

Jack: “You always manage to turn war into poetry.”

Jeeny: “No. I just remember that poetry is how humans survive war.”

Host: Outside, a streetlight flickered back to life, its glow steady this time. The bar felt quieter, as if even the walls were listening.

And in that moment — between the sound of rain dying, the faint hum of music, and two souls learning not to surrender to the darkness within — something sacred stirred.

Not peace, not yet.
But the possibility of it.

Because even if war runs in our blood, so does the hope to overcome it — that quiet, defiant, human instinct to use our courage not to destroy, but to protect what deserves to last.