I wanted to get far away from those who believed in cruelty, so

Host: The station platform was drenched in the heavy glow of late afternoon light — that aching hour between escape and arrival. The air smelled of iron, rain, and the faint sweetness of foreign bread baking somewhere nearby. Trains hissed in the distance like restless beasts.

Jeeny stood by the railing, a worn passport in her hand, her hair blowing in the wind. Jack leaned against a rusted pillar behind her, cigarette in his mouth, smoke curling upward — a thin grey thread against the pale sky.

The world around them moved in waves — strangers with suitcases, laughter in multiple languages, announcements echoing overhead — a symphony of departures.

Jeeny: (quietly, reading from her phone) “Josephine Baker once said, ‘I wanted to get far away from those who believed in cruelty, so then I went to France, a land of true freedom, democracy, equality and fraternity.’”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Ah, Josephine Baker — the woman who danced her way out of oppression and into legend.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And into history. She didn’t just dance — she defected from cruelty. Imagine having to leave your country just to be seen as human.”

Jack: “Imagine finding humanity only after exile.”

Host: The sunlight stretched long across the tracks, the metal shining like veins of gold. The low hum of the trains filled the space — steady, mechanical, relentless, like the heartbeat of progress itself.

Jeeny: “She called France a land of freedom and equality. And for her, it was. There’s something poetic about that — that she had to leave home to find belonging.”

Jack: “It’s poetic, sure. But also tragic. The irony of finding freedom in someone else’s flag.”

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom doesn’t belong to any flag.”

Jack: (snorting) “Tell that to politicians.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather tell it to dreamers.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying with it a swirl of dust and echoes — footsteps, voices, laughter, languages colliding like raindrops. Jeeny turned to face Jack, her eyes bright, her voice tender but charged.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about her words? She wasn’t just escaping cruelty — she was running toward beauty. That’s a different kind of rebellion.”

Jack: “Running toward beauty doesn’t make the cruelty disappear.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps the soul alive while you fight it.”

Jack: (pausing) “So, you think art can really defy oppression?”

Jeeny: “I think art is defiance. Josephine didn’t fight with weapons — she fought with her body, her voice, her joy. She danced freedom into existence.”

Jack: “Joy as rebellion. I like that.”

Jeeny: “It’s the most dangerous kind. They can outlaw words, ban marches, censor ideas — but they can’t stop the rhythm of a body refusing to bow.”

Host: The station clock chimed softly. A train whistle echoed through the valley of tracks, long and mournful. Jack flicked his cigarette away, watching it die on the platform — a small act of ending amid the chaos of beginnings.

Jack: “Still, it’s strange, isn’t it? A woman running from America to Europe for freedom — when both were built on conquest.”

Jeeny: “Freedom is always relative to pain. For her, France wasn’t perfect — but it was possible.”

Jack: “Possible?”

Jeeny: “Yes. A place where she could sing without apology, love without fear, and be more than the label others gave her. Isn’t that what we’re all chasing? A place where we can exist without shrinking?”

Jack: (quietly) “You make exile sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. Sometimes leaving is the only way to keep your faith in humanity.”

Host: The sky darkened slightly, clouds rolling in with slow, deliberate grace. The air changed — cooler, sharper — like the edge of revelation.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought freedom meant doing whatever you wanted. No rules, no restrictions. Now I think it’s the opposite.”

Jeeny: “What changed?”

Jack: “I realized freedom’s not chaos. It’s dignity — the right to be seen as human, not tolerated as decoration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly what Josephine understood. Freedom isn’t indulgence — it’s identity.”

Host: The first drops of rain began to fall, dotting the steel rails with tiny silver beads. The crowd shifted, umbrellas opened. But Jack and Jeeny stayed where they were, unmoved, as if the rain itself was part of the conversation.

Jeeny: “Do you think the world has changed since her time?”

Jack: “Changed? Maybe on paper. But cruelty just learned to wear suits and smiles.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still leave home chasing her same dream — that somewhere out there, kindness rules.”

Jack: “Naïve.”

Jeeny: “Necessary.”

Host: The rain deepened, falling harder now. A train roared past — a blur of color, sound, and motion. Jeeny’s hair clung to her face, her eyes burning bright even through the downpour. Jack looked at her — at the stubborn spark that refused to dim.

Jack: “You’d leave too, wouldn’t you? If this place turned cruel.”

Jeeny: “I’d go anywhere where love isn’t illegal.”

Jack: “And if no such place exists?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then I’d build one.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a vow — fragile, defiant, eternal. The train that had just passed left a cloud of mist behind it, curling upward, ghostly and luminous.

Jack: “You think Josephine found what she was looking for?”

Jeeny: “I think she became it. That’s what freedom really is — not a country, but a person brave enough to live as proof of what’s possible.”

Jack: “Then maybe exile isn’t escape. Maybe it’s transformation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Leaving isn’t about running away. It’s about walking toward who you are when no one’s watching.”

Host: The rain softened again, turning from storm to hush. The light reflected off the puddles — small mirrors holding fragments of sky and rail and hope.

Jack: “You know what strikes me most about her words? She said ‘those who believed in cruelty.’ As if cruelty was a faith.”

Jeeny: “It is. But so is compassion. The question is — which one we practice harder.”

Jack: “You sound like you’d follow Baker to France.”

Jeeny: “No. I’d follow her courage.”

Jack: “And if that leads to nowhere?”

Jeeny: “Then at least I’d know I moved.”

Host: The station lights flickered to life as twilight fell. People hurried onto their trains. Engines rumbled. Steam rose in plumes that caught the last streaks of sunset — red and gold and fleeting.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, rain-soaked, silent, watching the rails disappear into the distance.

And in that silence, Josephine Baker’s words seemed to hum in the air —

That freedom is not found,
but chosen.
That exile, when born of conscience,
becomes a form of faith.
That to flee from cruelty
is not cowardice,
but the purest act of courage —
a declaration that love deserves a land of its own.

Host: The train whistle sounded again — long, haunting, beautiful.

Jeeny turned to Jack, her voice barely above the wind.

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom isn’t a place after all, Jack. Maybe it’s a promise we keep — even when we’re tired.”

Jack: (softly) “Then I hope we never stop keeping it.”

Host: The rain faded to mist. The last train left the platform. And the two stood there —
two travelers not running from cruelty, but walking toward something quieter,
something kinder,
something that might just be called home.