If investments in banks fall, it is a tragedy, and people say

Host: The cathedral bells tolled in the distance, their sound heavy with age and irony. Outside, the city buzzed — not with prayer, but with commerce: cars honking, screens flashing, traders shouting into headsets. The sky was a bruised gold, the color of endings disguised as prosperity.

Inside a quiet café across from a marble bank building, Jack and Jeeny sat at a small table, two voices drowned by the noise of progress. Through the window, the bank’s logo gleamed — clean, polished, eternal — while a few meters away, an old man rummaged through a trash bin for scraps of bread.

A newspaper lay open between them. The headline read:
“Pope Francis: If investments in banks fall, it is a tragedy; but if people die of hunger, it’s nothing.”

The words sat there like an indictment neither could deny.

Jeeny: Looking out the window, voice trembling with quiet anger. “He’s right. We mourn stock markets, not starving mouths. The economy collapses and it’s ‘a tragedy.’ But when a child dies of hunger, it’s called statistics.”

Jack: Stirring his coffee, eyes fixed on the foam swirling like a vortex. “That’s because numbers are easier to fix than people. You can bail out a system, Jeeny. You can’t reboot a human life.”

Jeeny: “That’s the sickness of it, Jack. We’ve built a civilization that loves capital but tolerates corpses.”

Jack: Sighs. “You’re talking like the Pope now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s the only one left who’s not afraid to sound human.”

Host: The rain began outside, slow and methodical, painting streaks across the glass like veins of guilt. The bank’s lights flickered on — glowing like sanctuaries for money.

Jack: Leaning back, tone thoughtful but tired. “You can’t just blame the system. Hunger isn’t caused by greed alone. It’s logistics, corruption, overpopulation, war—”

Jeeny: Cutting him off sharply. “No, Jack. Hunger is caused by indifference. Don’t tell me it’s complicated. We throw away enough food every day to feed everyone twice. We just don’t care enough to try.”

Jack: His voice hardens. “You think compassion alone fills empty plates? You need infrastructure, trade, policy. Compassion doesn’t ship grain or fund hospitals.”

Jeeny: “And policy without compassion becomes cruelty in a suit.”

Jack: “You always make this about morality. But the world runs on balance, not benevolence. The economy’s a heartbeat — you can’t stop it every time it hurts someone.”

Jeeny: Her hands clenched. “Then what’s the point of the heartbeat if it’s only keeping money alive?”

Host: The rain deepened, becoming a steady drumbeat on the roof, a rhythm older and more honest than their debate. Outside, the old man found a piece of bread, smiled faintly, and disappeared into the alley. Neither of them noticed — or maybe they did, but couldn’t bear to admit it.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think, Jack? We’ve replaced morality with markets. We measure virtue in GDP. We’ve forgotten that a stock index rising means nothing if the human spirit is falling.”

Jack: “You think markets are evil. They’re not. They’re mirrors. They reflect who we are — what we value. The tragedy Pope Francis talks about isn’t capitalism; it’s us.”

Jeeny: Softly. “Exactly. And what we value is profit over people. That’s why his words sting. Because he’s not condemning the banks — he’s describing our reflection.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the irony. The Pope preaches sacrifice, but everyone listening is scrolling through investments on their phones.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the confession, Jack. We’ve built a religion of return-on-investment. Our temples are banks, our prayers are interest rates, and our god is growth.”

Host: The thunder rolled faintly over the city. The lights in the café flickered, and for a moment, all the noise of the street faded. Just silence — and the sound of the rain, like penance falling from the sky.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve lost faith in everything.”

Jeeny: “Not everything. Just in the hierarchy of our compassion. We treat wealth like it’s sacred and people like they’re expendable. The Pope’s right — when the market dips, the world gasps; when a child starves, the world scrolls.”

Jack: His voice softer now, reflective. “You know… when I worked in finance, there was this day — the market crashed overnight. Everyone panicked. Phones ringing, headlines screaming ‘disaster.’ I remember a colleague crying — real tears — over the losses. That same week, there was a famine overseas. Thousands dead. No one mentioned it once in the office.”

Jeeny: Her tone tender but heavy. “Did it change you?”

Jack: Quietly. “It made me wonder when I stopped believing numbers were neutral.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered on his face, tracing the line between guilt and awakening. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes fierce, her voice trembling with conviction.

Jeeny: “The economy was supposed to serve humanity, not enslave it. But we’ve turned compassion into a commodity. Even charity’s branded now — every cause a campaign, every conscience a click.”

Jack: “And yet, without the system, nothing moves. No hospitals, no research, no aid. You can’t dismantle the machine without killing what it keeps alive.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we don’t dismantle it — we rewire it. Make it remember its purpose. Because right now, it’s just devouring its own children.”

Jack: “And who decides what ‘purpose’ looks like? You? The Pope? Governments? Every ideology that’s tried to moralize economics has failed.”

Jeeny: With quiet fire. “Maybe failure isn’t the worst thing. Maybe indifference is.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and the city lights softened, washing the streets in silver. The old man reappeared briefly, sheltering beneath the bank’s grand archway — a prophet no one recognized.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? That you’re right. That we’ve grown so used to tragedy that only the financial kind still feels real.”

Jeeny: “Because tragedy has marketing. Famine doesn’t. It doesn’t tweet or crash the Dow. It just dies quietly, waiting for us to notice.”

Jack: After a long silence. “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We start by redefining what we call loss.”

Jack: Nods slowly, eyes lowering. “Maybe that’s what the Pope was trying to say. That the greatest bankruptcy isn’t in our markets — it’s in our hearts.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The sky cleared, revealing faint stars above the skyscrapers. The city exhaled, unaware of the quiet revelation in that little café.

Jeeny reached across the table, her hand resting on Jack’s — not in comfort, but in understanding.

Jeeny: “When people die of hunger, Jack, it’s not just their bodies that fail — it’s our humanity that collapses with them.”

Jack: “And we call that… normal.”

Jeeny: Softly, shaking her head. “No. We call that civilization.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the city lights flickering like constellations of contradiction — wealth and want sharing the same skyline.

And as their silhouettes blurred against the window, Pope Francis’ words seemed to echo across the glass, sharper than any sermon, more haunting than any loss:

“A market collapse shakes our faith in money, but a human collapse no longer shakes our faith in ourselves. That is the tragedy of our time — not that we can’t feed the world, but that we’ve forgotten why we should.”