If you're a politician, you might want to learn the Buddhist way

Host:
The temple courtyard glowed beneath a lantern-streaked dusk, the kind of light that seemed to hover between worlds — gold, quiet, infinite. The air was thick with the scent of incense and wet earth, a faint breeze stirring the red ribbons tied to the old Bodhi tree at the center.

A bell sounded somewhere in the distance — soft, resonant, as if even sound had learned how to bow.

Jack sat on a stone bench, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a half-burnt cigarette forgotten between his fingers. His eyes were weary — not just from work, but from the weight of conviction.

Jeeny stood near the steps, her hands clasped loosely before her, gazing at the lotus pond where faint ripples moved across the water like thoughts refusing to settle.

A quote was etched in calligraphy on a hanging scroll near the shrine:
“If you're a politician, you might want to learn the Buddhist way of negotiation. Restoring communication and bringing back reconciliation is clear and concrete in Buddhism.” — Thich Nhat Hanh

The words hung between them like incense smoke — visible, then vanishing, yet impossible to forget.

Jeeny: (softly) “Imagine if the world actually practiced that — negotiation as reconciliation, not domination. Thich Nhat Hanh saw politics as an extension of compassion.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Compassion doesn’t win elections, Jeeny. It barely survives family dinners.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it’s needed. People treat peace like poetry — beautiful, but useless. He made it practical.”

Jack: “Practical? You think compassion can outmaneuver greed? Or that listening will stop wars? The Buddhist way might sound wise in temples, but in the real world, the loudest one wins.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him, eyes steady) “Then the world is deaf, Jack — not real.”

Host:
The bell chimed again, its echo flowing through the courtyard like water finding every crevice of silence. Jack’s cigarette burned out in his hand. He didn’t notice.

The sky above them deepened — a velvet blue dissolving into darkness.

Jack: “Politics isn’t a monastery. It’s a battlefield. You don’t negotiate with an enemy who wants your destruction — you survive them.”

Jeeny: “And yet every war ends with people sitting down to talk. Isn’t that irony? We destroy to remember how to speak again.”

Jack: “Talk doesn’t erase graves.”

Jeeny: “No. But it prevents new ones.”

Host:
Her voice was quiet, but it landed like the ring of a struck bell — soft, unwavering, impossible to ignore. Jack looked away, his jaw tight, his hands restless.

Jack: “You sound like those monks who think enlightenment solves everything. But the world runs on power, not prayers.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Real power isn’t control — it’s the ability to transform suffering. A good politician doesn’t crush opposition; they dissolve misunderstanding.”

Jack: (with a bitter laugh) “Try dissolving a dictator, Jeeny. Or a CEO. See how far compassion gets you.”

Jeeny: (fiercely) “It got Mandela thirty years in prison — and forgiveness afterward. It got Gandhi freedom for a nation without a single bullet. It got Martin Luther King a movement built on love, not hate. Don’t talk to me about weakness.”

Host:
The wind shifted. The lanterns swayed, casting moving shadows across their faces — two people caught between anger and understanding. The pond rippled again, scattering the reflection of the moon.

Jack: (quieter now) “And what did it cost them? Gandhi, King — both shot. Mandela nearly broken. Compassion didn’t save them.”

Jeeny: “No. But it saved the world because of them. The Buddhist way isn’t about saving yourself. It’s about refusing to become your enemy.”

Jack: “Easy to say from a temple courtyard. Harder when your people are starving or silenced.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s why it’s called a practice, Jack — not a luxury. It’s hardest when it’s needed most.”

Host:
A moment of silence fell — not empty, but alive. Cicadas hummed softly from the trees. The bell rang again, one long, resonant tone that seemed to echo inside the body.

Jack exhaled, his breath visible in the cooling air.

Jack: “You think I don’t want peace? I just don’t believe it’s possible anymore. People don’t want reconciliation — they want to win.”

Jeeny: “Winning isn’t peace. It’s a pause between losses.”

Jack: (looking up at her) “So what, Jeeny? What would you have us do — bow while they burn everything down?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d have us bow before we burn. There’s a difference.”

Jack: (half-smiling, pained) “You really believe people can change through compassion?”

Jeeny: “I believe they already have. Every time a soldier chooses mercy. Every time a mother forgives. Every time someone listens when it would be easier to shout.”

Host:
Her words carried through the air like the drifting smoke of incense — intangible, yet deeply real. Jack turned his gaze to the Bodhi tree, where hundreds of red ribbons fluttered — prayers written by anonymous hands, all whispering the same plea: Let there be understanding.

The moonlight caught his face, softening it. The anger that once sat sharp along his jaw began to fade.

Jack: (after a long silence) “I used to think negotiation was about strategy. About winning the middle. But maybe you’re right — maybe it’s about remembering the other person is human.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s the Buddhist way. It’s not about debate. It’s about returning someone to the space where words can heal again.”

Jack: “And if they don’t want healing?”

Jeeny: “Then you heal yourself. Sometimes peace starts there — with one person who refuses to hate.”

Host:
The bell tolled one final time. Jack stood, brushing dust from his sleeves, his expression thoughtful — a man caught between skepticism and surrender.

Jeeny reached for one of the ribbons, writing quietly with the temple pen, her hand steady.

Jack: (watching her) “What are you writing?”

Jeeny: “A wish. For someone to listen before speaking.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe I’ll write one too.”

Host:
He took a ribbon, hesitated, then began to write. His letters were clumsy but deliberate. When he tied the ribbon to the tree, the wind carried it among the others — indistinguishable now, yet part of something larger, luminous.

They stood there together, silent, watching the ribbons dance.

Host:
The camera pulled back slowly, capturing the two figures beneath the tree — their shadows merging, the lanterns glowing, the night breathing softly around them.

And over it all, Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching lingered — not as a slogan, but as a way of being:

That peace is not the absence of conflict,
but the presence of understanding.
That negotiation is not victory,
but reconciliation.
And that every word spoken in awareness
is itself a small act of salvation.

The scene faded, leaving only the sound of the bell,
and two souls learning, at last,
that the hardest battle
is not with the world —
but with one’s own voice.