It becomes more necessary to see the truth as it is if you

Host: The rain had been falling since dawn — relentless, gray, and without rhythm — like the city was trying to wash away something it couldn’t name. The alley behind the old printing press steamed faintly, the scent of wet ink and metal thick in the air. Inside, a few lights flickered; a machine clanked and hummed like a tired heart.

Jack stood by the window, a cigarette between his fingers, eyes sharp as cold steel, watching raindrops race each other down the cracked glass. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the worn floor, surrounded by scattered flyers — each bearing slogans of change, freedom, and truth that the world seemed determined to ignore.

Host: The walls of the small room were stained with posters of forgotten movements — faces that once led revolutions, now yellowed with time. The faint smell of smoke and paper hung like a memory of fire.

Jeeny: “Steven Biko once said, ‘It becomes more necessary to see the truth as it is if you realize that the only vehicle for change are these people who have lost their personality.’”

Jack: “Biko.” He exhaled, smoke curling like a ghost from his lips. “The man who believed that consciousness could save a people. He died trying to prove it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe he was right. If people lose their sense of self, if they’re made to forget who they are — that’s where truth must begin. That’s where change starts.”

Jack: “Or ends.”

Host: He turned from the window, the faint light tracing the lines of his face — a face carved by fatigue, doubt, and something heavier than cynicism.

Jack: “You think people who’ve lost their personality can change the world? They can’t even change themselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why they can. When someone’s been stripped of everything — pride, identity, dignity — what’s left is the raw truth. No illusions. No masks. That’s where resistance grows.”

Jack: “Resistance?” He laughed, low, bitter. “You’re romanticizing suffering again, Jeeny. Most people who lose themselves don’t become heroes. They become numb. You take away a person’s self long enough, and they’ll do anything just to stop feeling empty.”

Jeeny: “But emptiness isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. You can’t rebuild a house until it’s torn down.”

Host: The rain struck the roof harder now, like drums in a distant protest. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the flickering light, her small frame vibrating with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “Biko understood that. Under apartheid, Black South Africans weren’t just oppressed physically — they were dehumanized. Their minds were colonized. He wasn’t talking about rebellion through violence; he was talking about liberation through awareness. Through truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t feed you, Jeeny. It doesn’t keep your children warm.”

Jeeny: “But lies can kill you.”

Host: Her voice rose, trembling not with anger, but with urgency. The sound seemed to cut through the hum of the machines.

Jeeny: “Biko wasn’t naive. He knew that change doesn’t come from the comfortable — it comes from those who’ve been broken. Because only the broken see what’s wrong without distortion. Only they can build something clean.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But I’ve seen what happens when people lose everything. They don’t become prophets — they become desperate. History’s full of those. Revolution eats its own.”

Jeeny: “And complacency eats everyone else.”

Host: Silence stretched between them — a silence so alive it seemed to vibrate in the wet air. The lights flickered once, twice, then steadied.

Jack: “You think truth can save the world. I think it just exposes how ugly it really is.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it has to. You can’t heal a wound you refuse to look at.”

Jack: “But at what cost? You show people the truth, and they crumble. You show them how small they are, how manipulated, how lost — and they break further.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes you have to break before you can rise.”

Host: Her words fell like the rain outside — gentle, relentless, impossible to ignore. Jack leaned against the window, the faint reflection of his own face staring back at him — distant, fragmented, tired.

Jack: “You really believe in people that much?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?”

Host: She gestured to the posters, the half-dry ink, the flyers that read “FREEDOM BEGINS WITH TRUTH.” Her hands were stained with black ink, and in the pale light, it looked almost like blood.

Jeeny: “If truth can reach even one of them — one person who’s forgotten their worth — it’s worth everything.”

Jack: “You’re chasing ghosts, Jeeny. People don’t want truth. They want comfort.”

Jeeny: “Then comfort is the enemy.”

Host: Jack let the words linger. He took another drag, his eyes drifting toward the flickering neon sign outside — its light sputtering in the rain like a failing heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought revolutions were made by dreamers. Turns out they’re made by survivors. People who’ve already lost so much they have nothing left to protect.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Biko meant. The people who’ve lost their personality — they’re not gone. They’re waiting to wake up. The system took their reflection, but not their essence.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re praying.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am.”

Host: Her eyes lifted toward him — not pleading, not soft, but fierce. The kind of look that doesn’t ask to be understood; it demands to be met.

Jeeny: “When a people lose their sense of self, when they’re told their lives are less valuable, less human — the truth becomes an act of war. Just naming it is rebellion.”

Jack: “And what happens after you name it? What happens when the truth burns everything down?”

Jeeny: “Then you rebuild. With real faces. With real hearts. Not the ones assigned to you.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette burned out between his fingers, the ash dropping to the floor unnoticed. He looked at her, long, unblinking — like a man seeing something he’d forgotten he once believed in.

Jack: “You think change still matters.”

Jeeny: “I think truth still does.”

Host: The printing press began to hum louder, as if agreeing. The first flyer slid out — the words bold, unafraid:

“THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN SILENCED WILL BECOME THE VOICE.”

Jack stared at it for a moment before picking it up. The paper was warm from the machine, still damp with ink — a fragile, breathing thing.

Jack: “You know, this could get you arrested.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But silence already feels like prison.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, leaving behind a muted city, its streets gleaming like wet mirrors. The air was heavy but clean — the kind of air that follows thunder, when the world seems new and bruised at the same time.

Jack placed the flyer back on the table, his hand lingering over the words.

Jack: “You think Biko was right?”

Jeeny: “I think he understood something eternal — that truth is the only thing stronger than oppression. You can cage bodies, but not awareness.”

Jack: “And if awareness comes too late?”

Jeeny: “Then it comes when it’s supposed to.”

Host: She stood, her face half-lit by the broken window’s glow. For a moment, she looked like a painting — fragile, fierce, alive. Jack looked at her — and for once, the cynicism in his eyes broke.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse of being awake. Seeing things as they are.”

Jeeny: “And the blessing of it too.”

Host: The rain stopped. The world held its breath. The printing press quieted, its final flyer drifting to the floor like a slow confession.

Jeeny bent down, picked it up, and handed it to him.

Jeeny: “Change doesn’t come from saints, Jack. It comes from the broken — the ones the world calls lost. The ones who still dare to tell the truth.”

Jack: “And what about you?”

Jeeny: “I’m one of them.”

Host: He smiled then, faintly, something like respect cutting through the gray. The neon outside blinked one last time, steady at last.

Jack: “Then maybe there’s hope after all.”

Jeeny: “Maybe hope’s just truth, whispered loudly enough.”

Host: The camera lingers — on the flyers, on the damp floor, on the faint traces of ink on their hands — two souls, drenched in fatigue but not defeat.

And as the light returns to the rain-streaked window, the truth they’ve spoken lingers — fragile, raw, and fiercely alive — the kind of truth that burns quietly, waiting to become revolution.