Internationalism is a community theory of society which is

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving behind a wet gleam that made the city look like it was breathing — steam rising from the pavement, lights shimmering in puddles, reflections merging like the faces of a single organism.

At the top of a glass high-rise, a conference room stood in near-darkness, its panoramic windows framing a skyline that looked both infinite and fragile. Inside, a single table lamp burned softly. Jack sat by it, sleeves rolled, a half-empty glass of water before him. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, her hands pressed lightly against the glass as she looked out — at borders she couldn’t see but still felt.

A faint hum of the city filled the silence, that modern choir of engines, electricity, and longing.

Jeeny: (softly) “Christian Lous Lange once said, ‘Internationalism is a community theory of society which is founded on economic, spiritual, and biological facts. It maintains that respect for a healthy development of human society and of world civilization requires that mankind be organized internationally.’”

Jack: (leaning back, half-smile) “A hundred years later, and we’re still building fences. So much for organization.”

Jeeny: “Because we still confuse unity with uniformity. Internationalism wasn’t about sameness — it was about coexistence. A chorus, not a chant.”

Jack: “A chorus sounds good until you realize everyone’s singing in a different language.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point of music, Jack — harmony, not monotony. We don’t have to sound alike; we just have to listen.”

Host: The light from the window touched the edge of Jeeny’s hair, making it shimmer like a dark halo. Jack’s reflection in the glass looked doubled — as though two versions of him were trapped in debate: one belonging to the nation, the other to the world.

Jack: “Lange was a dreamer. He believed in humanity the way a gambler believes in luck — too much, too long. The world isn’t a community; it’s a competition. Economics decides borders more than ideals ever will.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even competition needs rules. That’s what he meant — to organize isn’t to control, it’s to respect balance. When power acts alone, civilization fractures.”

Jack: “You’re assuming civilization is one thing. It’s not. It’s a thousand competing instincts pretending to cooperate. You can’t organize instinct.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can elevate it — with reason, with empathy, with awareness that what’s good for one part of the world can’t come at the cost of the other.”

Jack: “That’s idealism — pure and unsustainable. The global economy runs on hunger somewhere, ignorance somewhere else, and distraction everywhere.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why internationalism is not an economy, Jack — it’s an ethic. A declaration that we can’t keep surviving by breaking the same bones we stand on.”

Host: The rainlight outside flickered across the glass, turning the world into watercolor — lines blurred, colors bleeding into one another. Inside, the room felt suspended, like a thought still deciding whether to become a truth.

Jack: “You really think mankind could organize itself without hierarchy? Without dominance?”

Jeeny: “I think it has to try. Every empire dies of isolation — too much pride, not enough perspective. Internationalism isn’t about erasing identity; it’s about giving identity purpose beyond itself.”

Jack: “You make it sound like morality can outvote markets.”

Jeeny: “Morality is the market — it’s just been undervalued for too long.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “You’d make a terrible politician.”

Jeeny: “Because I’d tell the truth?”

Jack: “Because you believe people want it.”

Host: The light shifted again as a plane crossed the skyline, its distant roar vibrating faintly through the glass — a small symbol of global movement, of borders temporarily ignored for the sake of travel. Jeeny’s eyes followed it until it disappeared into the fog.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Lange understood? That nationalism is adolescence — necessary once, destructive when prolonged. Humanity has to grow up. Cooperation isn’t a weakness; it’s evolution.”

Jack: “And what if cooperation just creates new tyrannies? One global voice, louder than any dissent?”

Jeeny: “Then the responsibility is to make that voice plural. To build systems that respect their own diversity.”

Jack: “Respect. There’s that word again. You think it’s enough to hold the world together?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. Laws, treaties, agreements — they all crumble without respect. It’s the first brick in every bridge.”

Host: The city lights flickered below — endless towers, endless windows, each one a life unaware of the conversation happening above them. The sound of the wind slipped into the room, bringing with it a kind of cold clarity.

Jack: “You talk like unity’s a cure. But maybe fragmentation’s just part of who we are. Maybe the world needs friction — separate fires to keep it alive.”

Jeeny: “Friction, yes. Division, no. Friction polishes. Division destroys.”

Jack: “But human nature doesn’t want to polish — it wants to win.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe internationalism isn’t about changing human nature — it’s about teaching it restraint. It’s the difference between a blade and a scalpel.”

Jack: “So the world’s a body, and you’re saying nations are organs that need coordination.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And when one organ starts feeding only itself, the whole body sickens. Lange saw that — that economy, spirit, and biology aren’t separate systems. They’re one pulse, one organism, pretending to be many.”

Host: The lamp on the table buzzed faintly, its filament trembling as though echoing her metaphor — one light connected to an entire grid of unseen energy. Jack watched it, his expression softening, as if conceding that even cynicism could admire coherence.

Jack: “You know what’s tragic? We built the tools for connection — the internet, global trade, flight, language — and instead of bringing us together, they’ve made the divisions louder.”

Jeeny: “Because we used the tools without the theory. Lange gave us the blueprint, but we built without respect. The architecture of humanity was meant to have windows, not walls.”

Jack: “And yet, every window eventually becomes a mirror.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Only if you stop looking through it.”

Host: A brief silence followed — the kind filled not with emptiness but with agreement too complex to name. Jack took a slow sip of water. Jeeny turned from the window, her eyes catching the dim light like reflections of something older — faith, maybe, or conviction disguised as patience.

Jack: “So you think organizing mankind internationally is more than politics.”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Politics divides to rule. Internationalism unites to survive.”

Jack: “And what about identity? Culture? Nations need stories — without them, people become ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s write bigger stories. Not ones that erase difference, but ones that honor the same authorship — the human one.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But neither is extinction.”

Host: The rain began again, gently this time — like applause for the persistence of hope. The room seemed warmer now, the lamp’s glow spilling softly across their faces.

Jack looked at Jeeny, something like understanding flickering in his eyes. He wasn’t convinced — not entirely — but for the first time, he didn’t argue.

Jack: “Maybe Lange was right. Maybe the world does need organizing. Not by law, or money, or even faith — but by respect.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s all he ever meant. Internationalism isn’t a system — it’s a choice. A daily one.”

Jack: “A choice to see the world as one?”

Jeeny: “No. A choice to see yourself in it.”

Host: Outside, the city lights blinked like constellations — not fixed, not distant, but alive, trembling in rhythm with human breath.

As the camera pulled back, their silhouettes framed against the skyline, the sound of the rain merged with the faint hum of the world — the pulse of millions living separate lives under the same fragile roof of sky.

And as the scene faded, Jeeny’s voice lingered like a truth too soft to argue with:

“Respect isn’t just the foundation of civilization. It’s the reminder that humanity — for all its borders — was always meant to build together.”

Host: The rain ceased, the city glowed, and the night exhaled — unified, at least for a moment, under the silent architecture of light.