In South Africa, we could not have achieved our freedom and just

Host: The wind swept across the empty street, carrying the smell of rain and dust. A single lamp post flickered, its light stretching thin over the cracked pavement outside a small, forgotten train station. It was the kind of place where time felt tired, and memories still echoed in the walls.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across from one another at a worn wooden table, their coffee cups untouched, the steam long gone. A faint radio played in the corner — a voice from far away speaking of justice, change, and peace.

Jeeny had just read the quote, her voice trembling slightly, as if it carried more than words:

“In South Africa, we could not have achieved our freedom and just peace without the help of people around the world, who through the use of non-violent means, such as boycotts and divestment, encouraged their governments and other corporate actors to reverse decades-long support for the Apartheid regime.” — Desmond Tutu

The silence that followed was not empty. It was heavy, full of memory, struggle, and the weight of truth.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that change doesn’t always come from violence, but from solidarity. That people — just ordinary people — helped topple a system through boycotts, letters, and refusal.”

Jack: “Beautiful? Maybe. But also idealistic, Jeeny. Non-violence is a luxury the oppressed can’t always afford. Sometimes peace only comes after blood.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, his grey eyes narrowed, like someone who had seen too much of the world’s cruelty to believe in its redemption. The light above him buzzed, casting a faint halo that made his features look both tired and defiant.

Jeeny: “You always say that, Jack — as if violence is the only language people can speak. But look at Tutu, look at Mandela. They proved something powerful — that the moral pressure of the world can move mountains.”

Jack: “Sure, moral pressure works when the world’s watching. But how many places are forgotten, Jeeny? How many people suffer in the dark, where no one’s boycotting anything?”

Jeeny: “But that’s not an argument against non-violence, Jack. That’s an argument against apathy. Tutu wasn’t just talking about South Africa — he was reminding us that change depends on participation, on the refusal to look away.”

Host: The rain began to fall again, soft at first, then steadier, like a drumbeat of memory. The windows blurred, and their reflections melted into each other — two figures, one of fire, the other of light, forever debating the same truth.

Jack: “But Jeeny, be honest — do you really think boycotts can break an empire? You think some college kids refusing to buy oranges brought down the Apartheid state? It was economic collapse, geopolitical pressure, and the fear of revolution that did it.”

Jeeny: “And what caused that pressure, Jack? It was those same people — the students, the church groups, the artists, the citizens — who made the world see. They forced corporations to divest, they forced governments to act. It was the collective conscience of humanity that shifted the balance.”

Jack: “Collective conscience? That’s a myth. People act when it costs them nothing. They’ll wear a hashtag, they’ll sign a petition, they’ll tweet outrage — but they won’t sacrifice comfort.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Some do. Think of the Freedom Riders, the Gandhi marches, the boycotts in Montgomery. None of them had comfort. They had conviction. And that’s what changes the world.”

Host: The rain pounded harder now, the sound almost like applause or maybe warning. A train passed, its whistle long and lonely, cutting through the night like a memory of struggle that still lingered in the air.

Jack: “Conviction doesn’t always win, Jeeny. For every Gandhi, there’s a Che Guevara. For every Tutu, a rebel who had to fight because the world refused to listen. Sometimes the only peace that comes is when one side is silenced.”

Jeeny: “But Tutu’s peace was different. It wasn’t about silencing anyone — it was about reconciling. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission didn’t erase the past; it faced it. That’s the kind of peace that doesn’t rot from inside.”

Jack: “And yet South Africa still bleeds, Jeeny. Corruption, poverty, violence — it didn’t end with Apartheid. So where’s this so-called just peace?”

Jeeny: “It’s not perfect, Jack. But it’s better. And that’s what people forget — justice isn’t about making everything right. It’s about making it better than it was. Tutu knew that. He never promised utopia — he promised dignity.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had grown fierce, her eyes burning with something raw and ancient. Jack leaned back, his face unreadable, but his silence was not indifference. It was conflict — the kind that lives between a mind that doubts and a heart that remembers.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe the world can be redeemed.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because every time someone boycotts, marches, or speaks, it’s proof that the world hasn’t completely given up. Desmond Tutu once said, ‘If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.’ He was right. Neutrality is the real violence.”

Host: The radio in the corner crackled, and a recording of Tutu’s laughter — soft, joyful, defiant — echoed faintly, as if his spirit had joined the conversation.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what I never understood — how a man could forgive so much. I don’t think I could have.”

Jeeny: “That’s why men like him exist, Jack. To remind us that forgiveness isn’t weakness. It’s the hardest kind of strength — the kind that rebuilds rather than destroys.”

Host: Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the world washed and still. The streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, turning it into a mirror — a world made new, even if only for a moment.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… maybe non-violence isn’t about avoiding conflict. Maybe it’s about refusing to let hate dictate the terms of the fight.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. That’s the victory Tutu spoke of. Not freedom by conquest, but freedom by conscience.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, marking the slow return of calm. The radio played a faint hymn — a melody from faraway streets where once, voices had sung for justice and never stopped.

Jack reached for his coat, his eyes softer now, less skeptical, more haunted by understanding.

Jack: “Maybe peace isn’t something you win, Jeeny. Maybe it’s something you earn — together.”

Jeeny: “That’s all Tutu ever wanted, Jack. A peace that’s shared. A freedom that remembers who helped it happen.”

Host: They walked outside, the air still wet, the sky slowly brightening with the first hint of dawn. The city was quiet, but not asleep — it breathed, softly, like something reborn.

As they stepped into the light, the camera would pull back — showing the two of them as small figures against a vast, waking world, walking side by side through the echoes of history, through the rain, through the quiet, enduring proof that justice can be peaceful, and that peace can be brave.