It is easy to believe in freedom of speech for those with whom we

Host: The evening was thick with rain, soaking the cobblestone street until it gleamed like black glass. Inside the coffeehouse, the air smelled of wet coats, espresso, and the faint burnt sweetness of cigars. A dim yellow light fell through the fogged windows, painting the faces of strangers lost in their own worlds — screens, papers, tired thoughts.

In the corner by the window, Jack sat with his coat collar turned up, his hands around a cup of black coffee gone cold. Across from him, Jeeny was sketching something in a notebook, her hair loose, her eyes steady and dark, a kind of quiet fire glowing behind them.

Between them lay a newspaper, its headline bold and raw: “Protest Turns Violent — Speakers Silenced at University Forum.”

The rain outside kept its slow rhythm.

Jeeny: “Leo McKern once said, ‘It is easy to believe in freedom of speech for those with whom we agree.’”
She tapped the headline lightly. “He must’ve been thinking of nights like this.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s always the same song, isn’t it? Everyone’s a defender of free speech — until someone says something they can’t stand.”

Jeeny: “Because hate doesn’t deserve a microphone.”

Jack: “Who decides it’s hate? You? Me? The crowd with the loudest voice?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s obvious, Jack. There are words that bruise more than fists. You’ve seen what language can do — what it has done.”

Jack: “Sure. But shutting people up doesn’t heal anything. It just teaches them to whisper louder in darker corners.”

Host: A waiter passed, leaving a trail of coffee steam and tired footsteps. The rain thudded harder now, rattling the windows. A neon sign outside flickered, its red light painting the table between them like a pulse.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like censorship is the enemy. But silence can be protection, too. When hate speech spreads like wildfire, some voices need shelter.”

Jack: “Protection at the cost of honesty? If freedom only exists for the polite, it’s not freedom — it’s etiquette.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s that simple? Try telling that to a kid who’s been bullied for who they are. Freedom doesn’t mean letting people use words like weapons.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, it’s exactly when words cut deep that we test our belief in freedom. It’s easy to stand for speech when it flatters you. The test is when it disgusts you.”

Host: Jeeny closed her notebook, her fingers trembling slightly. Jack leaned forward, his eyes sharp, unflinching. The rain beat harder — a storm in rhythm with their voices.

Jeeny: “So we just let everyone say anything? Lies, racism, poison — all in the name of liberty?”

Jack: “No. We answer it. We argue. We confront it in daylight, not bury it in silence. That’s how ideas die — by being exposed.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a philosopher in a lecture hall, not someone who’s lived with the consequences.”

Jack: “I’ve lived enough to know that people who think they can control speech end up controlling more than words. Look at history — every regime starts by protecting people from ‘dangerous’ thoughts.”

Jeeny: “That’s dramatic.”

Jack: “Is it? The Soviet Union censored ‘unpatriotic’ art. McCarthy silenced ‘un-American’ voices. China bans words like ‘freedom’ online. It always starts with good intentions — keeping people safe.”

Host: Her eyes flickered, caught between anger and recognition. The light from the neon sign wavered, and the room seemed to tilt, filled with the tension of unsaid truth. A couple nearby argued softly, their voices blending into the storm.

Jeeny: “But Jack — words can ignite violence. Charlottesville, the Capitol riots — all started with speech. You can’t tell me that’s harmless.”

Jack: “No. But the answer isn’t gagging people — it’s educating them. You fight lies with better truth, not thicker tape.”

Jeeny: “And what if the truth doesn’t win?”

Jack: “Then at least we keep the field open. Once you start banning voices, it’s only a matter of time before they ban yours.”

Host: The rain softened. The barista turned off the grinder, and the hum of the city became almost gentle — the moment between storm and stillness. Jack took a sip of his cold coffee, grimaced, then set it down slowly.

Jeeny: “You think truth can defend itself. But people aren’t rational, Jack. They don’t weigh facts — they cling to comfort. Sometimes the lies are louder than reason.”

Jack: “That’s the point. Freedom isn’t about guaranteeing truth — it’s about giving it a chance to breathe. Even when it gasps.”

Jeeny: “And what about dignity? What about the people crushed under those words while the rest of us preach tolerance?”

Jack: “I don’t ask them to tolerate pain. I ask them to endure dialogue. It’s messy, unfair, human — but that’s democracy. No one gets to own the megaphone forever.”

Host: Jeeny stared at him, her jaw tight, her eyes glistening — not from anger, but from something older, softer. The flag hanging near the counter shifted slightly, as if catching the draft of their argument, listening in silence.

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t care who gets hurt.”

Jack: “You sound like you’d rather live in safety than truth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe safety is a kind of truth. The one we owe each other.”

Jack: “And maybe the only safety worth having is earned by risk — the risk of letting people speak, even when it burns.”

Host: The rain outside had eased into a drizzle, the city lights reflected in shimmering puddles. Somewhere, a street musician began to play, the notes drifting through the cracked door, soft as confession.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me, Jack? It’s not silence. It’s indifference. People say they believe in free speech — but only when it doesn’t cost them anything. The moment it hurts, they run.”

Jack: “That’s what McKern meant. It’s easy to defend the voices we like. The hard part is defending the ones that make our blood boil.”

Jeeny: “So we just... listen to everyone? No boundaries?”

Jack: “No. We draw boundaries — but not around speech. Around action. Hate, violence — those we punish. Words, we confront.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jack: “No. But it’s the only thing that keeps us from turning into what we hate.”

Host: A silence fell. The rain had stopped completely. The window was now a mirror, showing two faces — one hard-lined, one soft, both haunted by the same question: How much truth can we bear in the name of freedom?

Jeeny: “You always see the world as a battlefield. Maybe freedom isn’t a war. Maybe it’s a fragile conversation — one we have to protect from people who only want to scream.”

Jack: “And maybe it’s both. Maybe the conversation only survives because someone’s willing to fight for it.”

Jeeny: “And bleed for it?”

Jack: “If it comes to that.”

Host: The barista turned off the lights one by one. The city glowed outside, washed clean but restless. Jack and Jeeny rose, their shadows stretching long across the floor — two silhouettes, walking side by side yet carrying different fires.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe freedom of speech isn’t about the words we allow — but the humanity we refuse to lose.”

Jack: “Maybe. And maybe the real courage isn’t speaking — it’s listening.”

Host: They stepped out into the wet street, their footsteps echoing against the brick walls. The night air was cold, alive. Overhead, a neon sign flickered, spelling out a single word in red light: “OPEN.”

It glowed, buzzed, and stayed lit, as if to remind them — that freedom, fragile and flawed, still burns brightest when the world tries to turn it off.