I realized that it's all really one, that John Lennon was

Host: The night was thick with music. Guitar chords drifted through the humid air of a border café, where neon lights from a nearby street flickered against faded murals of revolutionaries and dreamers. The border fence, a few blocks away, hummed faintly under the weight of the wind, as if it too were trying to sing.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat at a small wooden table, their faces half-lit by the amber glow of an old jukebox. The song playing was a soft rendition of Imagine, and it hung in the air like a prayer that never died.

Host: The quote they were discussing — Carlos Santana’s words about music, compassion, and unity — was scrawled on a napkin between them, ink smudged by spilled beer and time:
“I realized that it’s all really one… We utilize the music to bring down the walls of Berlin, to bring up the force of compassion and forgiveness and kindness between Palestines, Hebrews… Bring down the walls here in San Diego, Tijuana, Cuba.”

Jack: (leaning back, his grey eyes reflecting the neon light) You know what I hear when I read that? Naïveté. Music can’t bring down walls, Jeeny. It can make people feel for a moment, maybe even dream — but real walls need real tools.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe. But every tool starts with an idea, Jack. Every movement, every revolution — it begins with a feeling that refuses to die.

Host: The wind outside picked up, rattling the metal shutters. In the distance, the border lights glowed — cold, constant, and unforgiving.

Jack: (scoffs) Tell that to the people who built that wall out there. You think a song could make them tear it down?

Jeeny: Not in a day. But it could make someone look at it differently. That’s how it starts — hearts before hands.

Host: Jack took a long sip from his glass, the ice clinking softly. His voice dropped.

Jack: You’re quoting Lennon now, aren’t you? “Imagine no countries…” — all that dreamy nonsense.

Jeeny: (quietly) Not nonsense — vision. The kind of truth that scares realists because it’s too simple, too human. Santana was right — it’s all one. The walls, the borders, the wounds — they’re all part of the same illusion we keep rebuilding.

Jack: (frowning) Illusion? Tell that to the people who get shot trying to cross that illusion.

Jeeny: (firmly) I do tell them — and they still believe. That’s what amazes me. Hope exists even where logic dies.

Host: The music changed, shifting to an old Cuban rhythm, the guitar strings trembling with warm defiance. A couple danced, their silhouettes swaying near the door, where the night air flowed in like a slow tide.

Jack: So what — music fixes politics now?

Jeeny: It doesn’t fix it. It transcends it. When the Berlin Wall fell, Jack, people didn’t just celebrate with hammers. They sang. Scorpions’ “Wind of Change” became the anthem. The melody carried what words couldn’t. That’s what Santana meant — the music became the force of forgiveness and kindness when politicians couldn’t find it.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) And yet the world’s still divided. The Palestines and Hebrews, Cuba still isolated, borders still locked. So where’s this great oneness?

Jeeny: (leaning forward) It’s there — in every voice that refuses to hate. You just can’t see it from your side of the fence.

Host: Her eyes glowed in the low light, dark and alive, like the embers of something that had survived fire.

Jack: (coldly) You think I don’t want peace? You think I like the divisions?

Jeeny: No, Jack. I think you’re afraid to believe it’s possible. Because if it is, then maybe all this suffering, all this cynicism, isn’t inevitable — it’s a choice.

Host: The tension thickened. The jukebox clicked, and a new song began — a slow flamenco, the strings crying softly like wounded hearts.

Jack: (quietly) My father used to play the radio every night when we lived near the border. Same old songs about freedom, home, God.
But when the immigration trucks came, those songs didn’t save anyone. They just made the pain louder.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe they did. But maybe that pain needed to be heard. Maybe that’s what music is — a way to remember what we keep trying to forget.

Jack: (bitterly) Remembering doesn’t change anything.

Jeeny: (gently) It does. Because memory is what makes compassion possible. Without it, we’d all become machines.

Host: Jack stared into his glass, the reflections of neon swirling like fractured galaxies. For a moment, he looked younger, as if some old wound had quietly surfaced.

Jack: You really think all this — music, compassion, forgiveness — can bridge what politics, money, and history can’t?

Jeeny: (whispering) It already has. Look at Live Aid, at We Are the World. Those weren’t just concerts — they were global prayers. For a few hours, millions of people sang together, across languages, races, and faiths. That was the sound of what “one” feels like.

Jack: (shaking his head) And then what? Everyone went back to their lives, back to wars and selfishness.

Jeeny: Maybe. But they went back a little more aware, a little more connected. The change doesn’t vanish, Jack — it sleeps, waiting to be played again.

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the open window, carrying with it the faint echo of a trumpet from a street performer outside — a slow, aching note that hung in the air like a plea.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about the grand gestures. Maybe it’s about the echoes.

Jeeny: Exactly. Every wall that falls — whether in Berlin, Gaza, or San Diego — starts as an echo in someone’s soul. Music just helps us hear it.

Host: Jack’s cigarette sat forgotten between his fingers. The flame of the lighter flickered, then died, leaving only the dim glow of the jukebox.

Jack: You always manage to make me feel like a cynic in confession.

Jeeny: (laughs softly) Maybe that’s because you are — and maybe that’s okay. Cynicism is just hope that’s been hurt too many times.

Host: Outside, a busker began to sing — an old Spanish song about home and forgiveness. The sound drifted through the open door, wrapping the room in a strange calm.

Jack: (whispering) You know, my mother loved Santana. She used to say, “He doesn’t play the guitar, he speaks with it.” Maybe that’s what I miss — the human voice inside the noise.

Jeeny: (smiles) Then you understand him. That’s what he meant — the oneness beneath the noise. The music isn’t just sound, Jack. It’s soul remembering itself.

Host: The night softened. The guitar outside rose and fell, a melody of pain, joy, and forgiveness all at once. The border lights flickered faintly, as if listening.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe the walls don’t fall all at once. Maybe they just... crack, little by little.

Jeeny: (touching his hand) And maybe that’s enough — as long as the music keeps playing.

Host: For a long moment, they sat silent, the music weaving through the air, mending something neither could name. Outside, the streetlight flickered once more, and the wind carried the sound of laughter across the borderline — no passports, no divisions, just sound, human and whole.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, over the rooftops, over the fence, over the cities divided by names, united by song. And the world, in that brief moment, would have seemed exactly as Santana said —
one.