If it is right for men to fight for their freedom, and God knows

Host: The evening light sank over the city, painting the skyline in hues of iron and fire. The streetlights blinked awake, one by one, like distant eyes witnessing the world’s quiet unrest. Down below, a small public square still bore the echoes of a protest — signs leaned against benches, chalk slogans half-washed by rain: Freedom is not inherited. It’s taken.

A few candles still flickered by the base of a bronze statue — a woman’s figure, tall, unyielding, her hand raised as if mid-speech. The plaque below read: Emmeline Pankhurst, 1858–1928. “Deeds, not words.”

Jack and Jeeny sat nearby, under the faint buzz of a streetlamp, sharing the last warmth of a day that had been filled with marching, chants, and resolve. Between them, a newspaper clipping — folded and worn — bore the quote:
“If it is right for men to fight for their freedom... then it is right for women to fight for their freedom and the freedom of the children they bear.”

Jack stared at it, his hands clasped, his brows furrowed, his grey eyes reflective but weary.

Jack: “She had a point, of course. But times are different now. Women don’t need to fight anymore. They’ve won — equal rights, equal votes, equal laws.”

Jeeny: “You think freedom ends with legislation? No, Jack. Laws are scaffolding — they hold the shape of justice, but they don’t build the soul of it. The fight shifts, but it never ends.”

Host: The wind stirred, catching loose flyers that rustled along the pavement like restless ghosts of the afternoon’s protest. Somewhere down the street, a lone saxophonist played, his tune bending between sorrow and triumph.

Jack: “You’re saying it’s never enough? That no matter what’s achieved, the fight continues forever?”

Jeeny: “Not forever — just as long as inequality keeps changing its disguise. Look at the wage gap, the double standards, the violence that hides behind closed doors. You think Pankhurst would call that victory?”

Jack: “But isn’t there a point where struggle becomes obsession? Where fighting becomes identity? That’s what I fear — that we’ll keep dividing ourselves into causes and forget the common ground we stand on.”

Jeeny: “And what common ground is that, Jack — comfort? Convenience? The peace that silence buys?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose, clear and sharp as glass. Her brown eyes caught the streetlight, and for a moment, she looked like a reflection of the statue behind her — fierce, illuminated, unbending.

Jack: “You talk like the world’s still burning.”

Jeeny: “It is. Maybe not in your world — but in mine, in theirs, it still is. Freedom isn’t a handout; it’s a heartbeat. If you stop fighting for it, it stops.”

Host: The rain began again, light but steady, pattering against the pavement. The sound of it merged with the low hum of the city — a chorus of persistence.

Jack: “You know, when men fought for freedom — wars, revolutions — they fought with guns, blood, sacrifice. But when women fight, it’s different. It’s quieter, slower. Sometimes I wonder if the world even notices.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? People don’t notice wars that don’t explode. But women’s wars happen every day — in courtrooms, hospitals, offices, kitchens. Every ‘no’ that’s ignored, every silence that’s forced — that’s a battlefield too.”

Host: The streetlamp flickered, throwing shadows that danced across the bronze face of Pankhurst’s statue. The rain blurred the edges of her inscription — as if even history was still weeping for what was left undone.

Jack: “You make it sound as if men and women are eternally at odds. But I don’t buy that. Freedom should be universal — not gendered.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And yet, for centuries, men’s freedom was treated as the default, while women’s had to be justified. That’s why Pankhurst’s words still matter. She wasn’t saying, ‘Women must fight against men.’ She was saying, ‘Women must fight alongside them — for all humanity.’”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the rain gathering in his hair, his voice low now — less argument, more confession.

Jack: “My grandmother was a nurse during World War II. Never got medals, never got thanked. But she saved lives — patched up soldiers, wrote letters for the ones who couldn’t hold a pen. She used to say, ‘Our fight is different, but it’s still a fight.’ I never really understood that until now.”

Jeeny: “She understood Pankhurst, then. The fight for freedom isn’t about who bleeds more. It’s about who refuses to stop caring.”

Host: Jeeny reached for the newspaper clipping, smoothing it gently with her fingers. The paper was soft, nearly translucent with wear.

Jeeny: “Pankhurst wasn’t asking for permission — she was declaring a truth: that the right to fight for one’s humanity belongs to all humans. Men fought kings. Women fought systems. Both fought cages.”

Jack: “And yet, one gets remembered with statues and parades — the other with footnotes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why we’re here — to rewrite the footnotes.”

Host: A car passed, its headlights sweeping across the square, briefly illuminating the wet pavement and the fading chalk slogans: Still we rise.

Jack looked up at the statue again — her bronze eyes unyielding, her metal hand frozen mid-speech, rain streaking down her face like tears turned to steel.

Jack: “Do you ever think she’d be disappointed in us? That after all this time, we’re still having this conversation?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe she’d say, ‘Good. Keep talking. Keep moving.’ Because the moment we stop questioning freedom, we start losing it.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a mist that glowed faintly under the streetlight. The city around them seemed to exhale — cars in the distance, laughter spilling from a bar, life continuing, messy but alive.

Jack: “You know, I used to think feminism was about anger. About resentment. But sitting here, it feels more like… responsibility.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not vengeance — it’s vigilance. Pankhurst didn’t fight because she hated men. She fought because she loved humanity too much to accept its half-measured justice.”

Host: The church bell in the distance tolled once — deep, solemn, echoing through the damp air. Jeeny stood, gathering her bag, her posture tall, almost defiant.

Jack rose too, glancing once more at the statue.

Jack: “So maybe freedom isn’t something we inherit after all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s something we rehearse — every generation, every day, in every choice to speak instead of stay silent.”

Host: They turned to leave, their footsteps splashing lightly through the puddles. Behind them, the bronze figure stood eternal — rain sliding down her raised arm like the memory of tears long transformed into resolve.

And as the city lights blinked through the mist, the square fell quiet again — except for the echo of a voice that still seemed to live there, whispering through time, steady as the pulse of the earth itself:

“If it is right for men to fight for their freedom… then it is right for women to fight for theirs.”

And beneath the echo, another sound lingered — the quiet rhythm of two people walking forward together, not as symbols of struggle, but as bearers of it — one step, one truth, one shared fight at a time.