I receive something we might euphemistically call an

Host: The rain fell in thin, cold sheets over the city, blurring the neon lights into trembling rivers of color. Inside a small radio station, the air buzzed faintly with the hum of electricity and the low whine of a distant generator. Through the glass booth, the studio’s red light flickered: ON AIR.
Jack sat slouched in the corner, his hands folded, his eyes distant but sharp, watching the rain’s reflection on the floor tiles. Across from him, Jeeny adjusted her headphones, her hair damp from the storm, her expression a mixture of tension and grace.

Host: The quote had been the spark — Mary Beard’s words on public hostility, on how every voice raised in truth seemed to invite anger beyond fairness. Tonight, Jack and Jeeny were about to dissect that truth — and themselves along with it.

Jeeny: “It’s frightening, isn’t it? How a voice, especially a female one, can still provoke what she called an ‘inappropriately hostile’ response. You can feel it — the rage people carry when someone refuses to be silent.”

Jack: (leans forward, voice low and rough) “It’s not that simple, Jeeny. Public speech has always been a target. You step into the arena, you get hit. That’s not misogyny; that’s human nature. People lash out when they disagree — or when they feel threatened.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup. The sound of the rain grew louder against the window, like murmurs of a restless crowd.

Jeeny: “But there’s a difference between disagreement and hatred. Between criticism and abuse. When Mary Beard speaks, she’s not just challenging ideas — she’s challenging systems. And for that, she’s punished. Do you call that natural?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s the price of visibility. When you speak on radio or television, you amplify yourself. You’re not just a person anymore — you’re a symbol. Symbols invite projection, and projection invites rage. It’s not personal — it’s the cost of the stage.”

Jeeny: “But why should the cost fall harder on some than others? Why should a woman’s voice, or a minority voice, or anyone who doesn’t fit the mold, face that level of vitriol?”

Jack: “Because the world doesn’t treat all voices equally. You know that. But still — the stage doesn’t owe anyone kindness. It only magnifies what’s already there.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and deliberate. The studio lights cast long shadows over their faces — one hardened, one luminous. The tension hung like a dense fog between them.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when Malala Yousafzai was shot? She didn’t even speak on radio — just in her school blog, talking about education. And yet, she was seen as a threat. That wasn’t the cost of visibility, Jack. That was the price of truth.”

Jack: (pauses, eyes narrowing) “Malala was a symbol, Jeeny — exactly what I’m saying. The more meaning people attach to your words, the more dangerous they become. Truth carries risk. Always has. Socrates drank hemlock for it. The medium just changed — from agoras to airwaves.”

Jeeny: “But you make it sound inevitable. Like hate is part of the bargain. It shouldn’t be. If every voice that speaks truth gets silenced by fear or mockery, what’s left? Just noise.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what it is now — a marketplace of noise. Everyone speaks, everyone shouts, and whoever’s loudest wins. When you broadcast yourself, you can’t control the echoes.”

Host: The rain outside turned into a downpour. The sound filled the room, masking the faint hiss of the microphones. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the window, his reflection trembling in the glass like a ghost of another man.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s given up on the idea of change.”

Jack: “No. I just accept the rules. You don’t go into battle expecting flowers. You don’t speak on television and hope everyone will clap. The more you push, the harder they’ll push back.”

Jeeny: “That’s resignation, Jack. You talk about battle like it’s all that life is. But it’s not. Mary Beard doesn’t stop speaking — she doesn’t retreat. She turns hostility into dialogue. That’s not war — that’s courage.”

Jack: (scoffs) “Courage? Or stubbornness? You can call it noble, but sometimes it’s just a refusal to accept reality. You can’t change how people react — you can only choose whether to keep fighting.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that the whole point? To keep fighting, even when the world snarls back? If you let fear dictate who speaks, then only the ruthless will ever be heard.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled — not from anger, but from a deep ache. Jack looked away, the cigarette smoke curling around his face, veiling the subtle twitch of something like regret.

Jack: “You think it’s that simple — fight and win. But have you seen what happens to people who speak too much? They get twisted by the spotlight. Look at the commentators, the activists, even the scholars. The more they’re attacked, the more they harden. Until all that’s left is armor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe armor isn’t the worst thing to wear. Some of us need it just to survive the stage. But underneath, there’s still a heart, still a voice. Mary Beard once said she refuses to let trolls decide who she is. That’s not armor — that’s integrity.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t stop the hate mail. It doesn’t stop the threats. It doesn’t make the night quieter when the screens fill with poison. You talk about courage — but courage has a cost, and sometimes it’s too damn high.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the cost is exactly what makes it real. If truth came cheap, no one would need to fight for it.”

Host: The studio light flickered again. The red bulb glowed faintly, pulsing like a slow heartbeat in the dark. Jack’s hand hovered over the control board, trembling ever so slightly.

Jack: “You really believe people can change by hearing words?”

Jeeny: “I believe they can be moved. Not all — but some. That’s enough. A single listener, a single mind shifted by a sentence — that’s worth every hostile response.”

Jack: “You sound like a romantic.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Maybe. But even romantics have built revolutions.”

Jack: “And realists have cleaned up after them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both are needed — the dreamers and the pragmatists. The world needs voices that dare to speak, and minds that dare to listen, even if imperfectly.”

Host: For a moment, the silence in the room became almost tender. The rain softened to a whisper, and through the window, the first hint of morning broke — a faint silver line slicing through the dark clouds.

Jeeny: “Mary Beard once said that the internet gives everyone a voice, but not everyone a heart. Maybe that’s what we need to remember. Speaking isn’t enough. We must listen, too — without venom.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Maybe the real courage isn’t just in speaking, but in not letting anger make you deaf.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world won’t stop being hostile, but maybe we can choose how we respond.”

Host: Jack looked up, his eyes meeting hers through the dim studio light. In that brief exchange, something like peace passed between them — quiet, raw, and real.

The storm outside had faded to mist, and the city began to wake. The red light on the console blinked one last time before dimming to black.

Host: And in the stillness that followed, two voices — one cynical, one hopeful — sat side by side in the lingering echo of a truth that neither could deny: that to speak at all, in a world so quick to strike, is itself an act of defiance, and perhaps, the first step toward understanding.