I was only a working-class boy from a Nationalist ghetto. But it

Host: The rain had been falling for hours over Belfast, slicking the streets into rivers of neon and mud. The smell of smoke and diesel hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint trace of beer and gun oil that never quite left this part of the city.

Inside a small pub tucked between two burned-out brick buildings, a single lightbulb swayed lazily above a wooden table. Posters of vanished men and faded slogans peeled from the walls. The clock on the counter ticked, but the hands never moved.

Jack sat with his coat still damp, hands wrapped around a half-empty glass of Guinness, the foam long gone. His eyes—those iron-grey, restless eyes—stared at the floorboards as if the truth lay hidden beneath them.

Jeeny sat across from him, her hair tied back, her face pale in the dim light, her voice soft but steady. The kind of voice that carried both grief and grace in equal measure.

Jeeny: “Bobby Sands once wrote, ‘I was only a working-class boy from a Nationalist ghetto. But it is repression that creates the revolutionary spirit of freedom.’ I’ve been thinking about that all week.”

Jack: “You and your quotes, Jeeny. You always find poetry in other people’s pain.”

Host: The fireplace hissed weakly, a small orange glow fighting against the damp. Outside, a distant shout echoed, followed by the dull crack of something breaking—a window, perhaps, or the fragile peace of the night.

Jeeny: “It’s not poetry, Jack. It’s prophecy. Sands didn’t write that to sound noble—he wrote it because it was all he had left to believe in.”

Jack: “He wrote it because he was trapped. Because he wanted to make sense of the cage.”

Jeeny: “Or because he knew the cage made the spirit visible.”

Host: Jack looked up, his brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. He took a long sip, then set the glass down harder than he meant to.

Jack: “You talk like suffering is romantic. It’s not. It’s just suffering. Hunger strikes don’t free anyone—they just starve the body while the system keeps eating.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, the world remembers the hunger striker and forgets the system. That’s the irony, isn’t it? The man who starves becomes immortal.”

Jack: “Immortal doesn’t mean free. He died in a cell, Jeeny. Alone. What kind of freedom is that?”

Jeeny: “The kind that outlives the body. The kind they couldn’t chain. He turned his own pain into a mirror—made the world look at what it didn’t want to see.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed, fierce now. The rain beat harder on the windows, blurring the streetlights into trembling halos of gold. Jack stared into his drink like it could answer for history.

Jack: “So you think repression is a gift now? That suffering breeds something noble?”

Jeeny: “No, I think repression is the mother of rebellion. You can only push people so far before their silence burns into song.”

Jack: “And then what? They pick up guns, bombs, slogans—call it freedom but it’s just another kind of death.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes death is the only voice left when life has been silenced.”

Host: The room tightened, the air thickening like smoke after gunfire. The two sat facing each other—logic against conviction, reason against fire.

Jack: “You sound just like the ones who justified it all. Violence, blood, loss—because it had a ‘spirit of freedom.’ I’ve seen that spirit up close, Jeeny. It bleeds the same as tyranny.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you think keeps tyranny alive, Jack? It’s not passion—it’s submission. Every quiet soul that decides survival matters more than dignity.”

Jack: “Dignity doesn’t feed your children.”

Jeeny: “And fear doesn’t save them either.”

Host: Her words sliced the air cleanly. The silence after was long enough for the drip from the leaking ceiling to fill it.

Jack: “You think Bobby Sands died for dignity?”

Jeeny: “I think he died to prove that even when the body is chained, the will can still refuse.”

Jack: “And that refusal—did it free anyone? Did it stop the bombs? The funerals? The walls?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not immediately. But it changed the story. Repression creates revolution not because people crave violence—but because they crave voice. The hunger wasn’t for death—it was for being heard.”

Host: Jack’s hands clenched around the glass, his knuckles pale.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe rebellion becomes its own repression? You rise up against power long enough, you start to want it for yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But without rebellion, there’s only decay. Look at history—every freedom we have was bought by those who refused silence. The American colonies. India under the British. South Africa. Freedom is the child of resistance.”

Jack: “And the grandchild of suffering. You keep feeding the same fire hoping it’ll warm you. But it just burns everything down.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what freedom needs sometimes—to burn what can’t be changed.”

Host: The rain had softened now, falling in long gentle threads across the glass. The bar was empty except for the barman half-dozing by the counter. The clock still refused to move.

Jack leaned back, eyes distant.

Jack: “When I was young, I thought rebellion was romantic. I marched, shouted, carried banners. But all I remember now are the funerals. Friends with no faces left. Mothers who forgot how to cry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why your voice matters, Jack. Because you remember. You know what the cost is—and yet you’re still here, talking about it. That’s also rebellion.”

Jack: “Talking doesn’t change the world.”

Jeeny: “Neither does silence.”

Host: A flicker of something—pain, maybe recognition—crossed his face. The lightbulb above them buzzed faintly.

Jack: “So you think attitude and spirit are enough to fight tanks and politics?”

Jeeny: “No. But they’re enough to remind the powerful that they haven’t crushed everything. That there’s something left that refuses to obey.”

Jack: “You’re describing faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith in freedom. The only kind worth bleeding for.”

Host: The pub seemed to still, as if listening to her. The rain had stopped completely. Outside, a thin silver mist rose from the wet cobblestones, softening the edges of the world.

Jack: “You know, Bobby Sands said he was just a working-class boy. I believe him. But he also became a symbol. And symbols… they’re dangerous. They live longer than the truth that made them.”

Jeeny: “Symbols survive because people need them. Because when the world crushes your voice, a symbol whispers for you.”

Jack: “And yet, people die chasing them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But better to die reaching than to live folded.”

Host: The flame in the fireplace flickered one last time before fading into embers. The smell of smoke mingled with the damp air. Jeeny leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what repression never understands, Jack. It thinks it can choke a people into silence. But it only teaches them how to sing without breath.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful lie.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a terrible truth.”

Host: The camera would linger there—a table, two glasses, the soft breath of a dying fire.

Jeeny’s eyes glowed with quiet defiance, while Jack’s reflected something broken but awake.

Jack: “Maybe freedom isn’t born from victory. Maybe it’s born from refusal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The spirit of freedom isn’t created in comfort—it’s forged in the dark, when the world thinks you’ve already given up.”

Host: Outside, a weak sunlight began to edge through the mist, touching the tops of the buildings like hesitant forgiveness.

The city was still scarred, still divided, but alive. Somewhere, a child laughed. Somewhere, a bell rang.

And inside that forgotten pub, two souls sat facing the weight of history—neither conquerors nor victims, but witnesses.

Jack: “You think repression will ever learn?”

Jeeny: “Only when the last voice falls silent. And we’re not silent yet.”

Host: The light caught her face then—a small, fierce glow against the greyness of morning.

The camera pulled back slowly, through the broken window, past the wet stones and sleeping streets.

Beneath the hum of the waking city, the echo of Bobby Sands’ truth seemed to whisper again—
that it is not privilege, but repression, that teaches the human soul how to dream of freedom.