It does not matter what you know about anything if you cannot

Host: The city had folded into night. Streetlights hummed with a weary glow, casting pale halos on rain-soaked pavement. The warehouse district slept uneasily — graffiti and silence sharing the walls like uneasy allies.

Inside an abandoned union hall, dust hung in the air like forgotten applause. Chairs were stacked in corners; posters of old strikes and marches curled with age, their slogans half-erased by time.

At the center of the room sat a single table, littered with flyers, markers, and an old megaphone whose batteries had died decades ago.

Jack leaned back in a folding chair, his grey eyes fixed on the ceiling, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. His voice carried that familiar rasp — the sound of skepticism carved into flesh.

Jeeny stood by the wall, staring at a torn banner that read: “We Speak for the People.” Her brown eyes burned with quiet frustration. The world outside had changed, but the walls still whispered the same question.

On the table lay a sheet of paper, the ink bold and unflinching:
"It does not matter what you know about anything if you cannot communicate to your people. In that event, you are not even a failure. You’re just not there." — Saul Alinsky.

Jeeny: “He was right, you know. Alinsky. You can have all the ideas, all the truth, all the plans — but if your people don’t understand you, you may as well be talking to the wind.”

Jack: (exhales smoke) “Or shouting into a void. Which, ironically, is what most leaders do.”

Host: The smoke coiled upward, merging with the dark, curling like thought dissipating before it could take shape.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve stopped believing in leadership altogether.”

Jack: “I haven’t stopped believing. I’ve just stopped romanticizing. Communication’s not truth, Jeeny — it’s translation. The more you translate, the more you lose.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of knowing anything if it never leaves your head?”

Jack: “Peace of mind.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “You? Peace of mind? That’s rich.”

Host: A flicker of lightning revealed the faded mural above the stage — workers with raised fists, faces painted in strokes of optimism. It looked almost tragic now.

Jeeny: “You know what I think he meant? Alinsky wasn’t just talking about communication. He was talking about empathy. About language as a bridge, not a weapon.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t win revolutions. Clarity does. People don’t follow feelings — they follow simplicity. The louder you are, the less you need to explain.”

Jeeny: “That’s not clarity, Jack. That’s propaganda.”

Jack: “Same difference.”

Host: Her eyes flashed, reflecting both the light and the fire that never really left her.

Jeeny: “No. Propaganda manipulates; communication invites. Alinsky taught that real power begins when people see themselves in your words — when your message stops sounding like a lecture and starts feeling like a mirror.”

Jack: “Mirrors lie too.”

Jeeny: “Only if you refuse to look closely.”

Host: The rain outside began to soften, its rhythm a steady pulse against the glass. Jeeny walked to the table and picked up one of the old flyers. It read: “Power to the People.” She smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “You know, this phrase used to mean something. Back when people stood in the streets instead of behind screens. When they listened — really listened — to each other.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now everyone’s shouting, but no one’s hearing. We’ve forgotten that communication isn’t noise — it’s connection.”

Jack: “Maybe the world’s too loud for connection.”

Jeeny: “Then whisper. But say something worth hearing.”

Host: The words fell between them like sparks. For a moment, the old megaphone on the table seemed to vibrate with memory — of rallies, of songs, of voices that once filled the night.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy — talking to people. But you can’t make them listen.”

Jeeny: “You can’t force them, no. But you can meet them where they are. That’s what Alinsky meant by ‘your people.’ Not the ones you wish would understand you — the ones who actually can.”

Jack: “And what if they don’t want to understand?”

Jeeny: “Then you change how you speak — not what you believe.”

Host: The light bulb above them flickered weakly, buzzing like an insect trapped in glass.

Jack: “So you bend your truth until it fits their comfort zone?”

Jeeny: “No. You translate it into compassion. There’s a difference. Convincing someone doesn’t start with winning the argument. It starts with earning their attention.”

Jack: “Attention’s cheap these days.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why truth needs to be vivid. Vital. Human.”

Host: The air in the room thickened with the kind of silence that follows hard truths. Outside, thunder rolled across the sky — deep, deliberate, eternal.

Jeeny: “Do you know what communication really is, Jack? It’s humility. The willingness to step down from your tower of intellect and speak in the language of pain, laughter, and fear — the language of the street.”

Jack: “That’s poetry. Not politics.”

Jeeny: “Poetry is politics when done right. The best revolutionaries were poets — Martin Luther King, Mandela, Gibran, Neruda. They didn’t just give people instructions. They gave them vision.”

Jack: (grinning) “Vision doesn’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “No, but it gives people a reason to live long enough to earn one.”

Host: She moved closer now, her shadow merging with his, their differences suspended in the dim light.

Jack: “You really think words can still change things?”

Jeeny: “They always have. Think of Gandhi’s letters, Lincoln’s speeches, even Stieglitz’s photographs — all forms of communication. Each found a way to make the invisible visible.”

Jack: “And yet the world keeps breaking.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we haven’t learned to listen yet.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the conviction within it did not. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, watching the ember die — a small red sun fading in a world already too dark.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe that if I could just explain things clearly, people would understand. But they don’t. They don’t want truth. They want comfort.”

Jeeny: “Then give them truth that feels like comfort. That’s what leaders do — they translate vision into human rhythm.”

Jack: (after a pause) “So it’s not about being right.”

Jeeny: “It’s about being heard.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air was cleaner now — still heavy, but no longer oppressive. The neon lights from a nearby diner spilled through the window, painting the walls in soft red and blue stripes, like a quiet revolution in color.

Jack: “You think Alinsky believed that communication was more important than truth?”

Jeeny: “No. He believed communication is truth — when it reaches the people it’s meant for. A truth that no one hears might as well not exist.”

Host: She turned to face him, her expression lit with both fatigue and fire.

Jeeny: “It doesn’t matter how wise you are, how moral, how informed — if you can’t translate your light into language, the darkness wins by default.”

Jack: “And if people twist your words?”

Jeeny: “Then you speak again. Louder. Smarter. Kinder. Until they don’t.”

Host: The old megaphone on the table gleamed faintly under the light, as though remembering what it once was — a vessel for voices.

Jack: (quietly) “You know... maybe that’s what Alinsky meant when he said, ‘you’re not even a failure — you’re just not there.’ Maybe silence isn’t neutrality. Maybe it’s absence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To not speak, to not reach, is to not exist.”

Host: She placed a hand on the megaphone, her fingers tracing the chipped paint, then looked at him.

Jeeny: “You can have knowledge, Jack. You can have vision. But until you share it in a way that breathes — that reaches — you’re just another ghost in a room full of echoes.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe it’s time to stop whispering.”

Jeeny: “And start speaking in words the world can feel.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now — the dim hall, the forgotten posters, the two figures standing close, their shadows long and alive. The rain had stopped, but the city still glistened, reflecting the faint promise of dawn.

And as the screen faded to black, Saul Alinsky’s words lingered — not as theory, but as warning:

"It does not matter what you know about anything if you cannot communicate to your people. In that event, you are not even a failure. You’re just not there."

Because in the end, truth unspoken is not wisdom.
It is absence wearing the mask of intellect —
and silence, the most eloquent failure of all.