If a strong government finds that it can, with impunity, destroy

Host: The sky above Geneva was the color of iron that evening — heavy, unyielding, indifferent. A slow rain dripped down the stone walls of the old conference hall, where a faint echo of past voices still lingered in the corridors — voices of leaders, of betrayals, of promises made and broken under chandeliers that gleamed like frozen tears.

Jack and Jeeny sat in a small café just across the square, the windows fogged by their breath, the air thick with the scent of coffee and memory. Outside, the great flags hung limp in the rain, their colors muted — like the ideals they were meant to represent.

Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup. Her voice, when it came, was soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Haile Selassie once said, ‘If a strong government finds that it can, with impunity, destroy a weak people, then the hour has struck for that weak people to appeal to the League of Nations to give its judgment in all freedom. God and history will remember your judgment.’”

Host: Jack didn’t answer immediately. He stared out the window, where a solitary soldier statue stood drenched, forgotten. The rain ran down its stone face like tears that history never bothered to wipe away.

Jack: “And history did remember. It remembered how the League failed him.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But his words still echo — louder than the silence of those who turned away.”

Jack: “Echoes don’t stop bullets, Jeeny.”

Host: The wind rattled the glass. The candle on their table shuddered but did not go out.

Jeeny: “No, but they remind the living of their cowardice. Sometimes, that’s more powerful.”

Jack: “Cowardice isn’t punished in politics. It’s rewarded with another term, another alliance, another trade deal. Selassie begged the world to act when Mussolini invaded Ethiopia — and what did the League do? They debated oil sanctions over lunch.”

Jeeny: “That’s why his words mattered. Because he spoke truth to a hall of deaf men. He wasn’t appealing to their politics — he was appealing to their conscience.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t exist in diplomacy. It’s a myth — a word used to justify whatever a nation was going to do anyway.”

Jeeny: “Then why did his speech survive when the League didn’t?”

Host: Jack looked at her. The rainlight through the glass caught his eyes, cold steel and smoke. For a moment, something human flickered there — a recognition of pain disguised as skepticism.

Jack: “Because tragedy is good for memory. People remember the betrayed more easily than the betrayers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think it’s because his words planted something. Even in that chamber of hypocrisy, someone must have heard — must have realized that silence is guilt.”

Jack: “And yet the world kept repeating it — Bosnia, Rwanda, Syria. Different flags, same apathy.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe his warning wasn’t for them — it was for us.”

Host: A silence stretched between them. The rain softened, turning from a storm to a steady whisper. The café was nearly empty now. Outside, the faint toll of a distant church bell marked the passing of another forgotten hour.

Jack: “You talk like hope’s still worth having.”

Jeeny: “It always is. If Selassie could speak of God and history while watching his country burn, then so can we. You can’t let the failure of the world erase its possibility.”

Jack: “He believed in the League — in collective judgment. But collective judgment’s just another name for shared excuses.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s shared responsibility. The difference is whether we choose to act or watch.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, though her eyes were firm. The flame between them leaned toward her, as if drawn by conviction itself.

Jeeny: “Do you know what struck me most about that speech, Jack? He didn’t beg. He accused. He stood before them — alone, exiled, his people dying — and said, ‘God and history will remember your judgment.’ That’s not a plea. That’s prophecy.”

Jack: “And history did remember — just not kindly. The League collapsed, and the world plunged into another war. His prophecy was a eulogy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But he proved something — that truth can outlive institutions. Governments fall, but words endure. Look at us — still talking about him now.”

Jack: “Talking changes nothing.”

Jeeny: “It changes us. And that’s where every revolution begins.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening. The rain had stopped, leaving a mist that curled like breath against the glass. In the distance, the Rhône river shimmered faintly under the streetlights, carrying the reflections of a city that had once promised the world peace — and delivered paperwork instead.

Jack: “You really think morality can exist between nations?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise we’re just trading flags for empires.”

Jack: “Power defines peace, not morality.”

Jeeny: “Then why do even the powerful fear being remembered wrongly?”

Jack: “Because guilt’s good for PR.”

Jeeny: “No — because even tyrants crave forgiveness. And history denies it.”

Host: The lanternlight between them flickered again, its glow deepening into a soft gold. For the first time that evening, Jack’s expression softened. His fingers stopped tapping the table. He looked at Jeeny, really looked.

Jack: “You’d have stood beside him, wouldn’t you? In that hall. You’d have faced the silence.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because silence is worse than defeat. At least when you speak, you still exist.”

Jack: “And when the world doesn’t listen?”

Jeeny: “Then you speak louder. You make the words impossible to forget. That’s what Selassie did — and what every generation must keep doing.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, steady as a heartbeat. The rain began again — a faint patter, like applause from unseen ghosts.

Jack: “You think God really remembers?”

Jeeny: “If not God, then history. And if not history — then us.”

Jack: “That’s a heavy faith to carry.”

Jeeny: “So is silence.”

Host: The city lights shimmered through the mist, wrapping their small table in gold and grey. Outside, a child splashed in the puddles, laughing — the sound brief, pure, and unbroken by the weight of politics or war.

Jack watched, his eyes softening. “You know,” he said, almost to himself, “maybe Selassie wasn’t just talking to the League. Maybe he was talking to the future — warning us that judgment isn’t theirs to give, but ours to inherit.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every time the strong crush the weak and the world looks away, we fail that judgment again. But every time we remember — every time we choose compassion over indifference — we answer him.”

Host: A deep stillness fell. The rain outside turned to a soft drizzle. The flame on their table steadied, calm now, no longer trembling.

Jack: “Maybe that’s all any of us can do — make sure history doesn’t forget.”

Jeeny: “Or better yet, make sure it forgives.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always have to end on hope, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Or else what’s the point of remembering?”

Host: They sat there a while longer, two small figures in a city built on promises, watching the rain stitch silver threads through the dark. Beyond the fog, the old League building loomed — silent, cold, but not forgotten.

In the reflection on the café window, their faces blurred into one — the cynic and the dreamer, the realist and the believer — united for a moment under the same uncertain light.

And as the clock struck nine, the Host whispered softly into the quiet that followed:

“God and history will remember your judgment — not because you spoke, but because you chose to listen.”