I think isolationism is a mistake, no matter what party you see

Host: The night was dense with the smell of diesel, dust, and rain on hot metal. The old warehouse at the edge of the city hummed with the low buzz of generators. Flickering light bulbs hung from the beams, swaying slightly in the damp wind that slipped through the open door. Beyond, the skyline glowed with a pale orange haze, where distant towers stood like silent sentinels.

Host: Jack stood near a rusted table, his hands resting on a spread of maps and newspapers, while Jeeny leaned against a stack of crates, arms folded, her dark hair slightly disheveled by the humid air. Between them, an old radio murmured the end of a political broadcast — the clipped, firm voice of Liz Cheney fading into static.

Host: The hum of the city felt far away, as if the rest of the world had retreated into silence.

Jeeny: “She said, ‘Isolationism is a mistake… there are two threats to our freedom — from government and from al-Qaeda.’ It’s strange, isn’t it? How freedom is always described as something under siege.”
Jack: He didn’t look up, just traced a line across the map with his finger. “That’s because it is. Always has been. Freedom’s fragile. People keep thinking it’s a right — but it’s a structure. Like a building with a weak foundation. One blow from outside, or one rot from within, and it collapses.”
Jeeny: “But what she said — it’s more than politics. It’s a worldview. The idea that fear justifies involvement. That you have to fight both enemies — the one inside and the one outside — to stay safe.”
Jack: “That’s not an idea, Jeeny. That’s survival. You close your borders, you isolate yourself, and the world moves on without you. Or worse — it turns against you.”
Jeeny: “But doesn’t involvement come with its own rot? Every empire that’s reached too far outward has fallen from within. Rome, Britain, even us — America’s not immune to its own reflection.”

Host: The rain began again — slow, deliberate drops tapping on the metal roof. The sound filled the spaces between their voices, a kind of punctuation for truths too large to fit in a single breath.

Jack: “Isolationism is cowardice disguised as principle. It’s a way to hide from responsibility. If the world burns and you say ‘it’s not my fire,’ that doesn’t make you moral — it just means you’ll choke on the smoke later.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s self-preservation. Maybe people are just tired of fighting everyone else’s wars. Look at Afghanistan — twenty years of blood and dust, and what did it give us? More ghosts. More grief. More people who hate us for showing up.”
Jack: “You think we can just retreat and everything will fix itself? The world doesn’t stop being dangerous because we stop looking at it.”
Jeeny: “No. But maybe danger isn’t something we’re meant to conquer. Maybe it’s something we learn to live with.”

Host: The light flickered again — one bulb died, plunging half the room into shadow. Jack’s face was lit only by the pale glow from his phone screen, the light catching the edge of his sharp cheekbone. Jeeny’s eyes gleamed softly in the dark, like reflections of distant fires.

Jack: “You sound like those pacifists from the ’30s. ‘Let’s stay out of Europe, let them handle it themselves.’ And then came Hitler. How many millions died before we realized that isolation wasn’t peace — it was denial?”
Jeeny: “History repeats itself, but not always in the same direction. You talk about Hitler, but what about Iraq? We intervened, toppled a regime, and left a vacuum that bred worse monsters. Al-Qaeda didn’t come from nowhere, Jack — it grew out of the very chaos we thought we could control.”
Jack: He slammed his hand lightly on the table, the map crinkling. “So what, we do nothing? We wait for the next threat to walk through our door?”
Jeeny: “Maybe the door wouldn’t be open if we hadn’t been walking into other people’s houses for decades.”

Host: The air tightened between them, the electricity of disagreement vibrating like a thin wire ready to snap. The radio hissed again, catching fragments of another speech — words like “security,” “patriotism,” “freedom” — echoing hollow through the static.

Jack: “Freedom isn’t free, Jeeny. That’s not a slogan — it’s physics. Every system that stays stable has something paying the cost somewhere.”
Jeeny: “But the cost isn’t always worth it. You can’t keep fighting monsters abroad while creating new ones at home. Look at what fear did after 9/11 — the surveillance, the paranoia, the Patriot Act. Cheney was right about two threats, but maybe they’re not equal. Maybe one of them lives closer than we admit.”
Jack: “You mean us.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The part of us that mistakes protection for control. The part that listens to fear more than conscience.”
Jack: Quietly. “Fear built walls, Jeeny. But it also kept civilizations alive.”
Jeeny: “It also made them forget what they were protecting.”

Host: She stepped closer to the table. The maps lay open like wounded skin — borders, lines, territories, all human inventions pretending to be truth. Jack’s hand hovered over one corner, tracing where Afghanistan bled into Pakistan, where Iraq met Syria. His fingers hesitated over the names — as if even the ink still held grief.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about what freedom really means? Not the word, but the feeling?”
Jack: “It means choice. The ability to act, to defend, to define your own life.”
Jeeny: “And what if your choices hurt others? What if defending yourself means destroying someone else’s peace?”
Jack: “Then you weigh it. You make the hard choice. Freedom isn’t kindness — it’s responsibility.”
Jeeny: “Responsibility to whom?”
Jack: “To those who can’t fight for themselves.”
Jeeny: “That’s what every empire has said before it burned.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming now like artillery on the roof. A drop fell through a leak above the table, splashing on the edge of the map. The ink began to run — black bleeding into blue, the borders fading into each other. Jeeny watched it, her voice lowering, softer now.

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom’s not about winning or losing. Maybe it’s about coexistence — the ability to live without conquering, to care without controlling.”
Jack: “That sounds beautiful. But naïve.”
Jeeny: “Maybe beauty always does, to cynics.”
Jack: He looked up at her, the corners of his mouth tightening. “You think the world can run on poetry? On goodwill and empathy? Try telling that to people living under tyranny.”
Jeeny: “And yet tyranny doesn’t always wear a foreign face, Jack. Sometimes it’s our own reflection — the moment we justify cruelty in the name of defense.”
Jack: “You’re saying America’s the villain.”
Jeeny: “No. I’m saying America forgets it can be one.”

Host: A long silence. The only sound was the rain, relentless, washing away the edges of the night. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed — not urgent, just constant, like an old wound refusing to close.

Jack: “You know, when I was stationed overseas, there was this kid — barely fifteen — who sold tea near the base. One day he disappeared. We heard later his family was killed in a drone strike meant for someone else. That’s when I realized — freedom, as we define it, isn’t free. It’s expensive. Paid for in lives that never get to vote on the cost.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe loving your country means demanding better of it.”
Jack: “And hating isolation means what — dragging it through every foreign hell to prove it still matters?”
Jeeny: “No. It means not abandoning humanity to fear.”

Host: Jack looked down again, his fingers resting on the blurred edge of the map. The ink had spread so far that borders had become rivers, and rivers had become oceans. The world looked softer, messier, but somehow truer.

Jack: “You think isolationism is wrong because it’s selfish. I think it’s wrong because it’s blind. But maybe it’s both.”
Jeeny: “And maybe intervention is both necessary and tragic. Like surgery — you save the body, but you always leave scars.”
Jack: “So what do we do then?”
Jeeny: “We remember. That both threats — from outside and within — are born from the same root: fear pretending to be strength.”
Jack: “And freedom?”
Jeeny: “Freedom is the courage to face the world without becoming what we fear.”

Host: The rain eased, becoming a soft mist that shimmered in the dim light. The flickering bulb above them steadied at last. Jack exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. Jeeny walked toward the doorway, where the city lights reflected in small puddles across the cracked concrete.

Host: She paused, looking back. “Isolation may protect the body,” she said softly, “but connection — even painful connection — is what keeps the soul alive.”

Host: Jack said nothing. He just folded the map carefully, pressing the wet edges together as if to hold the dissolving world in place. The sound of the radio returned — faint, steady, a voice speaking of unity, of vigilance, of hope.

Host: And as the light from the doorway fell across their faces, illuminating the scars of belief and doubt alike, the warehouse no longer felt divided — only human.