Insurgents have capitalized on popular resentment and anger

Host: The sky was the color of ash, the kind that lingers long after the fire has burned itself out. Wind drifted through the half-collapsed windows of an abandoned building, once a government office, now just ruins. Paper scraps fluttered in the corners — old election flyers, ration notes, maybe someone’s discarded dream. Outside, the faint echo of distant gunfire pulsed like a heartbeat too faint to sustain a body.

Jack stood by the broken frame, staring out toward the horizon where smoke twisted upward in thin, uncertain threads. Jeeny sat on a cracked desk, her fingers tracing the outline of bullet holes in the wall — tiny black mouths that once spoke violence.

Jeeny: “Tom Lantos once said, ‘Insurgents have capitalized on popular resentment and anger towards the United States and the Iraqi government to build their own political, financial and military support, and the faith of Iraqi citizens in their new government has been severely undermined.’”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s the thing about resentment — it’s the most reliable currency in a broken world.”

Host: The light from the setting sun poured through the window in narrow bars, striping Jack’s face with alternating lines of gold and shadow. He looked tired, his gray eyes carrying the weight of too much understanding and too little forgiveness.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like suffering’s a business.”

Jack: “It is. For some, it’s the best one. Anger sells faster than hope — always has, always will. People will give everything — money, loyalty, even their children — to anyone who promises to turn their pain into power.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? The people are desperate for something to believe in, and the first one who gives their anger a name becomes their savior.”

Jack: “Or their new oppressor.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the room, scattering dust into the fading light like drifting ghosts. Somewhere outside, a call to prayer echoed faintly, solemn, reverent, and painfully human.

Jeeny: “Do you think faith can survive when politics becomes war?”

Jack: “Faith’s a fragile thing. It can survive anything except betrayal.”

Jeeny: “And yet that’s what always happens. A government promises liberation, and people get chains of a different color.”

Jack: “That’s history, Jeeny. Revolution feeds on rage, then devours itself. Look at it — from the French Revolution to Iraq, the pattern doesn’t change. People rise, fueled by fury, and the ones who lead them drink that fury until it poisons them.”

Host: He picked up a small fragment of glass from the floor, turning it in his fingers. It caught the light like a splintered memory.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s lost faith in everything.”

Jack: “I haven’t lost faith. I’ve just learned it’s a dangerous drug. Give people faith without truth, and they’ll burn the world down to defend a lie.”

Jeeny: “But truth without faith is emptiness, Jack. Cold. It doesn’t move people. It doesn’t build anything.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe some things shouldn’t be built until we’re ready to build them right.”

Host: The air between them thickened with unspoken grief. In the distance, a small boy’s laughter floated faintly — strange and haunting amid the ruin — then faded into silence. Jeeny looked toward the sound, her eyes glassy, reflecting the world that still tried to live among the dead.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when the news first showed Baghdad after the invasion? The streets filled with hope — people cheering, kids waving flags. They believed freedom had finally come.”

Jack: “Yeah. And within months, those same streets were filled with smoke and blood. The same people building schools one day were digging graves the next. That’s what disillusionment looks like — the moment when hope turns into ash.”

Jeeny: “And the insurgents knew exactly when to strike.”

Jack: “Of course they did. They waited until belief cracked — then they offered belonging. That’s the real weapon — not bombs, not guns, but purpose. You give someone who’s been humiliated a cause, and you own their soul.”

Host: Jeeny lowered her gaze, her fingers brushing the dust off the table as if wiping away something sacred. Her voice came softer, trembling at the edges.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like humanity’s nothing but a cycle of manipulation.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. But manipulation only works because we want to believe in something better than ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe belief isn’t the problem, Jack. Maybe it’s who we choose to give it to.”

Host: The light dimmed, slipping from gold to deep amber, then to shadow. The walls around them seemed to breathe with the heat of long-ago rage. Jack leaned against the wall, staring at the bullet holes again, each one like a small punctuation mark in a story that refused to end.

Jack: “You know what the real tragedy is? The insurgents and the governments are just reflections of each other. One uses power to oppress, the other uses pain to control. Both need the people angry and afraid — otherwise they lose relevance.”

Jeeny: “Then where does it end?”

Jack: “It doesn’t. Not until people stop worshipping saviors and start demanding humanity.”

Host: Her eyes lifted slowly to meet his. There was fire there now — not the wild kind that destroys, but the steady flame of defiance.

Jeeny: “That’s easy for cynics to say. But what do you tell a mother who’s lost her son? A man who’s lost his home? You can’t just ask them to stop believing.”

Jack: “No. But I can ask them to believe smarter.”

Jeeny: “Smarter?”

Jack: “Yeah. To understand that not everyone who speaks their language speaks their truth. That sometimes the loudest voice is the one leading them off a cliff.”

Host: Silence fell, heavy as smoke. Outside, the wind began to wail through the broken structure, carrying with it the faint sound of dogs barking in the distance — the chorus of a city still alive, still suffering, still searching.

Jeeny: “So what’s the answer then? Silence? Apathy?”

Jack: “No. Awareness. Maybe that’s the only rebellion left — to see through the lie and still choose compassion.”

Jeeny: “Compassion in a warzone. You really think that’s enough?”

Jack: “It’s the only thing that ever was.”

Host: The sun finally sank behind the ruins, leaving only the trembling glow of distant fires on the horizon. Jeeny stood and walked toward the window, her silhouette caught in the last line of fading light.

Jeeny: “You know… my father used to say that war doesn’t destroy faith — it reveals where it was misplaced.”

Jack: “Your father was smarter than most generals.”

Host: The two of them stood in silence, the city whispering beneath them, torn yet enduring. Jack reached for his jacket, dusting off the grime, as if preparing to step back into a world that hadn’t changed but perhaps could.

Jeeny: “So what do we do now?”

Jack: “We rebuild. Not governments, not ideologies. Just… trust. One person at a time.”

Jeeny: “And if it fails?”

Jack: (with a small, weary smile) “Then at least it fails honestly.”

Host: A faint breeze slipped through the shattered window, stirring the hanging papers once more. One of them — an old flyer showing a child’s face beside a flag — fluttered down, landing between them. Jeeny picked it up, looked at it for a long moment, then folded it carefully and placed it in her pocket.

Host: Outside, the first stars appeared over the fractured skyline — small, stubborn lights pressing through the smoke. And for a moment, standing amid the remnants of a broken promise, Jack and Jeeny stood not as cynic and dreamer, but as two souls refusing to surrender their humanity to the ruins of belief.