It is an eternal obligation toward the human being not to let him

Host: The evening had turned to ash.
The sun, half-swallowed by the horizon, cast long shadows across the alleyways of an old industrial district. The air carried the smell of iron, rain, and something faintly human — the kind of scent that belongs to life on the edge of survival.

A warehouse stood alone among crumbling walls, its windows half-shattered, letting in sheets of light that fell like broken prayers. Inside, Jack crouched beside a pile of donated blankets, his hands red from the cold. Jeeny was there too, her hair tucked under a knit cap, her eyes steady as she ladled soup into a tin bowl for a man who hadn’t eaten in two days.

Host: The world outside had forgotten this place. But inside, something ancient — and fragile — still breathed.

Jeeny: (softly) “Simone Weil once said, ‘It is an eternal obligation toward the human being not to let him suffer from hunger when one has a chance of coming to his assistance.’ Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: (wiping his hands) “Obligation’s a big word. Depends on what you mean by it.”

Jeeny: “I mean exactly what she meant. If you can help, you should.”

Jack: “Should, maybe. But not everyone can afford to.”

Jeeny: (looks at him) “You can.”

Jack: (sighs) “You make it sound simple.”

Host: The wind howled through a broken windowpane, scattering a few papers across the floor. Outside, a train rumbled by, its lights flashing briefly over faces lined with fatigue and dignity.

Jack: “You talk about obligation like it’s eternal. But it’s situational. If you help one man eat, there’s another starving down the road. You can’t save everyone.”

Jeeny: “So you save no one?”

Jack: “I save what I can — by being realistic. Not idealistic.”

Jeeny: “Realism is often just a comfortable name for guilt.”

Jack: “And idealism is often a luxury for people who don’t understand limits.”

Host: The silence between them was heavy — like the kind that follows a confession. The man they’d been feeding nodded in thanks, wrapped his blanket tighter, and curled up by the wall, already half-asleep.

Jeeny: “Look at him, Jack. That’s not philosophy — that’s a human being.”

Jack: “I see him. But seeing isn’t saving. I can’t carry the world on my back, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No one’s asking you to. Just to bend down long enough to lift someone else.”

Jack: “And when they fall again? You think it ends there?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it begins there.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, its light uncertain — as if even it couldn’t decide what side of hope to belong to. Jack’s face was sharp, cut by shadow, his grey eyes fixed on the ground. Jeeny’s, warm but unyielding, held his like a quiet challenge.

Jack: “You know what happens when you start believing it’s your job to save everyone? You end up broken. You give, and you keep giving, and the hunger doesn’t stop — it just moves.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the goal isn’t to stop hunger, Jack. Maybe it’s to stop ignoring it.”

Jack: “That’s semantics.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s conscience.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the tin roof, scattering a few cans on the floor. Jeeny went on serving, her movements slow but steady. Jack watched her — the rhythm of her hands, the quiet grace in her work.

Jack: “You really think feeding a few people here makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “To them, it does.”

Jack: “But not to the system that made them hungry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But compassion doesn’t wait for permission from systems.”

Jack: “And what about the rest of us? We’re supposed to empty ourselves for others?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we’re supposed to remember that we could.”

Host: The sound of rain began on the roof — soft at first, then steady, rhythmic. The warehouse seemed to breathe with it, like a giant lung exhaling sorrow.

Jeeny: “Simone Weil believed that the greatest crime wasn’t cruelty — it was indifference. To see hunger, to feel nothing, to walk away — that’s where humanity ends.”

Jack: “And what about self-preservation? Doesn’t that count for something?”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. But self-preservation without compassion isn’t survival — it’s surrender.”

Jack: “You talk like there’s no line between sacrifice and stupidity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the line only exists for people who’ve never been desperate.”

Host: Her voice was trembling now, but not weak — trembling like a wire pulled taut between two poles of truth. Jack looked at her, and for a moment, something in him cracked — not visibly, but inwardly, quietly, like old ice giving way beneath the weight of memory.

Jack: “When I was sixteen, my father lost his job. For two weeks, we lived off canned beans and silence. He never asked for help. Not once. Said a man’s pride is his last meal.”

Jeeny: “And did it feed him?”

Jack: “No. It killed him.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Then maybe that’s why you’re here, Jack. Maybe part of you’s been hungry ever since.”

Host: The words landed softly — not as accusation, but as understanding. Jack’s breathing slowed. His hand trembled slightly before he reached for another bowl and filled it with soup.

Jack: “You think helping one person matters in the grand scheme?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the scheme. It’s about the person.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because hunger isn’t just about food. It’s about being unseen.”

Host: Jack handed the bowl to a woman waiting in the corner. Her eyes met his for half a second — tired, grateful, infinite. Something shifted in his chest, a quiet realization blooming in the cold air.

Jack: “Maybe Simone Weil was right. Maybe obligation isn’t about duty — it’s about recognizing yourself in someone else’s hunger.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not moral theory. It’s empathy in action.”

Jack: “And empathy hurts.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s working.”

Host: The rain had softened to a faint mist, the night humming gently beyond the walls. Jack and Jeeny continued serving, their movements slower now, almost synchronized. For a brief, unspoken moment, the distance between logic and love, between reason and mercy, disappeared.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… if reason builds cities, compassion keeps them alive.”

Jeeny: “And hunger — of the body or the soul — reminds us why either exists.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Maybe that’s the eternal obligation — not just to feed, but to feel.”

Jeeny: “To see hunger, and not turn away.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. A single beam of streetlight fell through the window, catching the rising steam from the soup pot — golden, fragile, and almost sacred.

Host: Jack looked up, his eyes softer now. Jeeny stood beside him, a quiet flame in the dim room. Around them, the hungry slept, their breathing even, their faces peaceful for the first time that day.

Host: The camera would pull back — the warehouse, the city, the lights — and at its center, two people, small against the world, yet carrying the weight of what mattered most: the refusal to let another go hungry when one can help.

Host: And in that fragile, eternal moment, compassion itself seemed to breathe — like the pulse of something divine remembering it still belongs to Earth.