I still believe that if your aim is to change the world

Host: The night pulsed with the faint hum of the city, alive but weary — the kind of hum that carries equal parts ambition and disillusionment. A lone streetlight flickered above the entrance to a narrow press office, where stacks of old newspapers sat yellowed and curling, like relics from another era of truth.

Inside, the room smelled of ink, dust, and coffee gone cold. The walls were lined with photos of protestors, world leaders, and the forgotten faces of strangers caught mid-expression — stories frozen in time.

Jack sat at a cluttered desk, sleeves rolled up, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He stared at the blank screen like it was a courtroom and he was both the witness and the accused. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, flipping through an old newspaper, her eyes moving slowly over the print like one reads the last love letters of a dying language.

Jeeny: (softly, reading) “Tom Stoppard once said, ‘I still believe that if your aim is to change the world, journalism is a more immediate short-term weapon.’”
She looked up from the paper. “A weapon, Jack. Not a tool, not an art — a weapon.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah. But these days, feels like the weapon’s jammed.”

Host: His voice was low, edged with fatigue, but beneath it pulsed something defiant — a spark that hadn’t gone out yet, even if it burned lower than before.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not jammed. Maybe it’s just aimed wrong.”

Jack: “Wrong? No. It’s aimed perfectly. At clicks, algorithms, outrage. We used to print truth; now we manufacture emotion.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not journalism that changed, Jack. Maybe it’s the journalists who forgot what kind of war they were fighting.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “You talk like it’s a crusade. It’s not. It’s survival. ors care more about trends than truth. The newsroom’s become a casino — headlines are the dice.”

Host: The ceiling fan groaned, turning lazily, scattering the faint scent of rain from the open window. A distant siren wailed — part of the city’s constant background choir.

Jeeny: “But Stoppard wasn’t wrong. Journalism can change the world — faster than philosophy, faster than politics. It reaches people where they live: in their fear, in their compassion. Words can start revolutions.”

Jack: “Or end them. You think revolutions die because people stop caring? No. They die because the story changes. History’s just journalism with a better editor.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still write.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Habit. Or masochism.”

Jeeny: “No. Because some part of you still believes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here at midnight, waiting for a sentence that might matter.”

Jack: “You ever wonder if that belief’s the last thing corruptible? Like, if I stop believing, I stop existing as a journalist — maybe even as a person?”

Jeeny: “Belief doesn’t make you naïve, Jack. It makes you dangerous. The world’s terrified of people who still believe truth can do anything.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second landing like a small accusation. Jack rubbed his temples, eyes closing for a moment.

Jack: “Truth. What a flexible word. These days, everyone’s got their own brand. You can’t even sell water without bias; how are you supposed to sell facts?”

Jeeny: “Maybe facts don’t need to be sold — just remembered.”

Jack: “Tell that to the millions scrolling through lies with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “Then stop blaming them and write something they can’t look away from. That’s what Stoppard meant. Journalism’s a weapon — you just have to choose your target.”

Jack: “And what if the target’s the reader?”

Jeeny: “Then aim carefully. Hit them in the conscience, not the comfort.”

Host: The rain began outside, a steady rhythm against the windows. The light flickered once, then steadied, bathing the room in muted amber.

Jack turned toward her now, the fatigue giving way to something sharper — conviction stirring beneath the ashes.

Jack: “You ever notice how everyone loves journalists when they’re dead? Hemingway, Kapuściński, Hunter Thompson — the world only values truth-tellers once the truth can’t talk back.”

Jeeny: “Because honesty’s threatening when it’s alive. It forces people to see what they’re complicit in.”

Jack: “Then maybe journalism’s not about changing the world anymore — maybe it’s about making sure the world can’t pretend it didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “That’s change, Jack. Awareness is the first revolution.”

Host: The thunder rolled distantly, low and patient, like the sound of something vast and waiting. Jeeny moved to the window, looking out over the city — its lights smeared by rain, its pulse steady and wounded.

Jeeny: “Think about it — a headline can topple governments. A photograph can end wars. A sentence can resurrect empathy. That’s not weakness. That’s power.”

Jack: “Power corrupts. Always has.”

Jeeny: “Not when it’s shared. Journalism was never meant to be power over people — it was meant to be power for them.”

Jack: “You sound like the kind of speech editors cut from their budget meetings.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe. But I’d rather write for the world’s conscience than its market share.”

Host: The light from the window touched their faces unevenly — Jack’s half in shadow, Jeeny’s illuminated. The image was almost too poetic: skepticism facing faith, both rooted in the same soil of truth.

Jack: “You really think words can still matter?”

Jeeny: “They always matter. Every word is a spark — some just die before finding oxygen.”

Jack: “And you think journalism can still give them air?”

Jeeny: “If the writer still breathes fire, yes.”

Jack: “Fire burns, Jeeny. It destroys.”

Jeeny: “It also lights the way.”

Host: The rain began to fade, the city glistening under the streetlights like something freshly born. Jack’s screen still glowed — a blank page waiting. He stared at it for a long time, then began to type, slowly at first.

Each word seemed heavier than the last, but also truer. Jeeny watched, saying nothing.

Jack: (murmuring as he types) “Maybe journalism isn’t about changing the world. Maybe it’s about reminding it that it can still be changed.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s your headline.”

Jack: “Too idealistic.”

Jeeny: “Too necessary.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the two of them small in the pool of lamplight, surrounded by shadows and words, the last bastion of sincerity in a world allergic to truth.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The city shimmered, reflective, waiting for its next headline.

And inside that flickering newsroom, Tom Stoppard’s belief lived on — not as nostalgia, but as proof.

That when all else fails —
when politics falter, when art grows silent, when truth becomes negotiable —
there will still be someone in a dimly lit room,
bleeding words onto a page,
trying to pierce the noise.

Because journalism, in its truest form,
isn’t just a weapon.

It’s a conscience —
one that refuses to die quietly.