I most sincerely wish that the world in which we live be free

Host: The evening sky was carved in two — one half burning with the last of the sunset, the other fading into the bruised blue of approaching night. The city below was a restless thing: sirens in the distance, lights flickering on like nervous thoughts, and the faint hum of traffic winding through its arteries.

Atop a weathered rooftop, Jack leaned against the rusted railing, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Beside him, Jeeny sat on the ledge, her hair brushing her face as the wind tugged at it. Between them sat an old radio, crackling faintly, playing the sound of an old speech — the voice steady, accented, resolute.

“…It is my cherished desire that peace be not separated from freedom which is the right of every nation. This I desire and for this I pray.”

Jeeny looked up at Jack.

Jeeny: “That was Lech Walesa. He said it during the Cold War — in a time when one wrong word could burn the world.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Funny. The words still fit. Just the names of the weapons change.”

Jeeny: “And the leaders. And the excuses.”

Host: The wind carried the sound of the city upward — laughter from a street corner, a car horn, the faint echo of a street performer singing under a bridge. Yet somehow, all of it felt fragile, like it existed on borrowed calm.

Jack: “You know, I read once that Walesa used to work as an electrician before all the politics. Fixing circuits in shipyards. There’s something poetic about that — a man who used to fix light deciding to stand up against darkness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only kind of person who should lead — someone who knows what it means to fix what’s broken.”

Jack: “Or someone who knows that every wire can burn if it’s overloaded.”

Jeeny: “You sound cynical again.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. Peace and freedom — they sound great in speeches, but they don’t share a bed easily. One always costs the other.”

Jeeny: “Not if you’re brave enough to refuse the trade.”

Host: A plane crossed overhead, its faint roar lingering like a memory. The city lights below mirrored the stars above, the line between heaven and earth blurring.

Jack: “Walesa prayed for peace without losing freedom. That’s a nice thought. But peace is always temporary, Jeeny. It’s a pause between wars — a breath before the next shot.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all prayer really asks for — a pause long enough to make us remember what being human feels like.”

Jack: “You think prayer changes anything?”

Jeeny: “Not the world. But it changes the one praying. And maybe that’s how the world begins to shift — one changed person at a time.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his eyes reflecting both the cigarette ember and the faraway glow of the skyline.

Jack: “You actually believe that? That peace starts with one person?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Wars start that way too.”

Jack: (quietly) “Fair point.”

Jeeny: “Walesa wasn’t naïve, Jack. He grew up under oppression. He saw what fear does to people. His prayer wasn’t weakness — it was rebellion. To pray for peace in a world built on conflict is to defy it.”

Host: The wind caught her words and scattered them into the open air. The radio clicked softly as the old speech replayed, the static whispering between phrases like ghosts caught in translation.

Jack: “He wanted peace that didn’t cost freedom. Most people settle for one or the other — they either chain themselves for safety or destroy safety for power.”

Jeeny: “That’s why his words still matter. He wasn’t praying for silence — he was praying for balance. For a world where peace doesn’t demand submission.”

Jack: “And freedom doesn’t demand blood.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sky deepened into full night now. Far off, a low rumble of thunder rolled — a sound almost indistinguishable from distant artillery. Jack looked up, listening.

Jack: “Sometimes I think the world’s addicted to the sound of its own destruction.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s up to the rest of us to change the rhythm.”

Jack: “You really think we can?”

Jeeny: “I think every act of kindness is a ceasefire. Every time someone listens instead of shouting, something in the universe quiets down.”

Jack: “That sounds idealistic.”

Jeeny: “No. It sounds necessary.”

Host: Jack flicked the ash from his cigarette. The ember flared, then faded, carried away by the wind.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to lie awake afraid of nuclear war. I remember drawing little shelters on my homework — places underground where we could hide if the sky ever fell. My father said fear like that kept people obedient. I think he was right.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But fear can also wake you up. It can remind you how much there is to protect.”

Jack: “You sound like a survivor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. We all are, in some way. Survivors of the world’s carelessness.”

Host: The rain began lightly, a fine drizzle that turned the rooftop silver. Jack tilted his head back, letting the drops hit his face — not flinching, just feeling.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? When every side claims righteousness, and every weapon claims necessity?”

Jeeny: “We remember that peace isn’t a policy. It’s a person’s choice. You start where you stand. You make sure your words don’t wound, your silence doesn’t condone, your comfort doesn’t depend on someone else’s suffering.”

Jack: “That’s a heavy responsibility.”

Jeeny: “So is freedom.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain grew heavier, blurring the city into streaks of light. The radio continued to hum, Walesa’s words repeating faintly in the static:

“…Peace be not separated from freedom, which is the right of every nation…”

Jack looked at Jeeny.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever get there?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in our lifetime. But maybe that’s not the point.”

Jack: “Then what is?”

Jeeny: “That we keep praying for it anyway.”

Host: Jack nodded — slowly, silently — and reached to switch off the radio. The hum stopped. The rain took over, a softer, older song.

They stood there for a while — two figures on a rooftop in a trembling world, listening to the rhythm of falling water, each drop a prayer in its own right.

And though the world below them still burned with conflict and ambition, the night held one fragile truth, carried quietly on the sound of rain and human breath —

that peace, real peace, begins not with treaties or power,
but with the stubborn hope that refuses to stop praying.

And perhaps that was what Lech Walesa understood:
that even in a divided world, faith in peace is not weakness —
it’s the courage to believe when belief itself is under fire.