Intolerance betrays want of faith in one's cause.

Host: The evening sun burned low behind the old courthouse, casting long shadows over the stone steps where Jack and Jeeny sat. The square around them buzzed with the sound of voices — a peaceful protest winding down after hours of chanting, banners fluttering weakly in the warm wind.

Empty coffee cups, torn flyers, and half-faded chalk slogans littered the ground — fragments of conviction left behind. A violinist played softly on the far corner of the square, the melody trembling like a wounded dove trying to lift its wings.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling upward in lazy defiance. His eyes, cold grey and tired, followed the fading crowd. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands resting on a rolled-up banner that read, in uneven paint: “Justice Belongs to Everyone.”

Host: The light turned amber, and the air felt like memory — heavy with what had been shouted, yet fragile with what hadn’t been understood.

Jeeny: “Mahatma Gandhi once said, ‘Intolerance betrays want of faith in one’s cause.’”

Jack: (exhales smoke slowly) “Yeah. Easy for a saint to say.”

Jeeny: “Not a saint. A man. A man who chose peace over pride.”

Jack: “And got shot for it.”

Host: The violin wavered, then stopped. A brief, uneasy silence took its place.

Jeeny: “You think he was wrong?”

Jack: “No. I think he was right — and that’s what scares me. Because being right doesn’t save you from the world. It just paints a bigger target on your back.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t say tolerance was safe. He said intolerance was weak.”

Jack: “Weak? Tell that to the people who won by force. History isn’t written by the tolerant, Jeeny — it’s written by those who couldn’t afford to be.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s remembered by those who refused to hate.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted one of the old protest flyers from the ground, spinning it through the air before it disappeared down the street. The movement caught Jack’s attention. His jaw tightened — as if the idea of letting go bothered him more than the struggle itself.

Jack: “You talk like love’s enough to fix this mess. Look around — people don’t listen until you shout. They don’t change until you corner them.”

Jeeny: “That’s not change, Jack. That’s surrender disguised as progress. Fear doesn’t transform people — it only silences them.”

Jack: “And tolerance doesn’t stop destruction. It just delays it.”

Jeeny: “You mistake tolerance for apathy. They’re not the same. Tolerance is the discipline of the strong. It’s faith that the truth can stand on its own, without needing to be forced down anyone’s throat.”

Host: The last of the sunlight fractured through the courthouse windows, scattering gold across their faces. Jack looked at her, then away, his cigarette now just a glowing ember.

Jack: “You ever try to talk to someone who hates you for existing? You ever try tolerance when someone’s spitting in your face?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And I learned that hate thrives on reaction. It feeds on the fire it creates. The moment you answer with rage, you tell it you’re afraid.”

Jack: “Afraid of what?”

Jeeny: “That you’re not sure your truth is enough.”

Host: The clock tower above struck seven — its chime deep and deliberate, slicing the air between them.

Jack: (after a pause) “You think intolerance is a sign of doubt?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? If you’re truly certain of your cause, you don’t need to crush anyone else’s. You just live your truth so loudly that it speaks for itself.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But in practice, it’s suicide. The patient get trampled while the loud get laws passed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every loud victory built on hate collapses eventually. Look at every empire, every movement that forgot compassion — they all rot from the inside.”

Jack: “And you think faith protects from rot?”

Jeeny: “Faith is protection. Not from loss — from becoming what you fight.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the steel beneath it glinted in the dying light. Around them, the square began to empty completely. A few volunteers gathered signs, the violinist packed up his case, and a young girl, no older than twelve, crouched to draw a heart with chalk on the pavement.

Jack watched her quietly. The simplicity of it — a pink heart drawn between broken slogans — seemed to hit harder than all the speeches from the day.

Jack: (quietly) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “That faith is stronger than fear?”

Jack: “That love’s enough to keep people from tearing each other apart.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only thing that’s ever started to mend them.”

Host: The sky deepened into indigo. A light rain began — soft, cleansing. The chalk heart blurred, the edges dissolving, but the color still shone faintly beneath the water.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think tolerance is just a word we use to feel better about giving up.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the word we use for courage when the world expects anger.”

Jack: “You ever wonder what Gandhi would say about this world? About the way we throw hate like confetti, just to see who bleeds first?”

Jeeny: “He’d probably say the same thing — that our intolerance only proves how little we trust our own truth. That violence is the language of those who’ve forgotten their voice.”

Host: Jack leaned back, running a hand through his damp hair. The rain gathered on his lashes. His eyes — grey, weary — found Jeeny’s in the dim light.

Jack: “You think there’s still hope for us?”

Jeeny: “There has to be. Otherwise, all this —” (she gestures to the square, to the slogans, to the rain) “— becomes noise instead of faith.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In each other. Even when we don’t deserve it.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain softened to a drizzle, whispering across the stone steps. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, then looked down at the wet chalk heart — smeared, fading, but still visible.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what belief is. Not something that stands untouched — but something that stays, even when it’s washed thin.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera panned upward — over the courthouse, over the fading protest signs, over the city lights beginning to bloom in the twilight. The world seemed both broken and resilient, like a scar that refused to close because it still had stories to tell.

Jeeny stood, holding out her hand to Jack. He took it, hesitated, then smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Come on. We can’t change the world tonight. But we can refuse to hate it.”

Host: They walked down the wet steps, their reflections shimmering in the puddles like echoes of something better trying to exist.

And as the rain fell steady, Gandhi’s words seemed to rise with it, floating above the empty square like prayer-smoke:

“Intolerance betrays want of faith in one’s cause.”

Host: And beneath that truth — simple, fragile, eternal — the city breathed again, forgiving, for now, those still learning how to believe without fear.