It is hard as an American to support the failure of American

Host: The bar was dimly lit, its air heavy with the smell of smoke, beer, and something older—like regret soaked into the wood. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, soft but unrelenting, as though the sky itself mourned something unseen. A muted television played above the counter—images of a foreign desert, flags at half-mast, headlines crawling across the screen in quiet hysteria.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his hands wrapped around a glass that had long since stopped sweating. His grey eyes were fixed on the television but didn’t seem to see it. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam curling like a ghost between them.

Host: Between the flicker of light and the silence of rain, the words of Scott Ritter hung in the air, heavy with contradiction and grief:
“It is hard as an American to support the failure of American military operations in Iraq. Such failure will bring with it the death and wounding of many American service members, and many more Iraqis.”

Jeeny: “It’s a brutal kind of honesty, isn’t it? To admit that even the truth—when it finally wins—can bleed.”

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t win wars. It just makes you hate yourself slower.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve stopped believing in anything at all.”

Jack: “Belief’s a luxury, Jeeny. Especially when you’ve seen what happens to people who believe too much. Iraq was supposed to be liberation. Turned into occupation. Every good intention ends in a crater.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because we forget what liberation really means. You can’t free a people by breaking them first.”

Jack: “Tell that to history. It’s built on the bones of ‘necessary violence.’ Rome, Napoleon, America—same playbook. We kill, we justify, we call it destiny.”

Jeeny: “But there’s still a difference between defending and conquering, Jack. Between protecting lives and pretending that death is virtue.”

Jack: bitterly “Try explaining that to the mother of a soldier who never came home. Or to a father in Fallujah who buries his children after a drone strike. Both sides think they’re right. Both think God salutes their flag.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming against the windows with desperate rhythm. Lightning flashed briefly, illuminating the smoke curling above them, then fading into a darkness that seemed deeper than before. The television cut to footage—convoys rolling through sand, faces lit by gunfire, reporters whispering in hushed tones of strategy and loss.

Jeeny: “I read somewhere that Ritter said supporting the truth was harder than supporting the flag. Because truth doesn’t give you parades.”

Jack: “No. It gives you silence. And enemies on both sides.”

Jeeny: “But someone has to speak it. Even if it’s unpopular.”

Jack: “And what good does that do? The truth doesn’t stop bullets. It just paints the graves with better words.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still care enough to be angry?”

Jack: “Because I once believed in the story. The one about freedom, democracy, good guys and bad. Until I realized it was just another mask over greed and fear.”

Jeeny: “You can still believe in the people, Jack. Not the system, not the policy—but the human cost beneath it all.”

Jack: quietly “That’s what hurts most. Believing in the people. Because they’re the ones who pay for the lies.”

Host: The bar’s jukebox sputtered to life, playing an old, sad country song about homecoming and loss. A few men at the counter lifted their glasses toward the screen when another report of casualties aired—an act more ritual than celebration.

Jeeny watched them, her eyes reflecting the dim glow of the television.

Jeeny: “You see them? They don’t toast because they believe in the war. They toast because they have to believe their friends didn’t die for nothing.”

Jack: “And that’s the cruelest part. Every war demands faith after the fact. Otherwise, the grief eats you alive.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Ritter meant. That even acknowledging failure takes courage. Because it means facing the truth that every life lost might not have been for victory—but for misunderstanding.”

Jack: “Courage? It’s survival instinct. You tell yourself the war was necessary, or you drown in guilt. You have to build meaning from the wreckage, or it crushes you.”

Jeeny: “But you’re still here. You didn’t drown.”

Jack: grimly “No. I just learned to breathe underwater.”

Host: The bartender turned the TV down, and for a while, there was only the sound of rain and the hum of the refrigerator. The world outside the window blurred—a city trying to forget itself.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe failure isn’t the opposite of patriotism, but the test of it?”

Jack: “You mean, can you love a country that’s broken?”

Jeeny: “No. I mean, can you love it enough to admit when it’s wrong?”

Jack: “That’s not love. That’s disillusionment.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe disillusionment is the adult version of patriotism.”

Jack: “You should put that on a flag.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Maybe one day we’ll wave flags for honesty instead of victory.”

Host: Her words landed softly but stayed heavy in the air, like dust that refused to settle. Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, the faint tremor of memory rippling through his stillness.

Jack: “You know, I met a soldier once—Marine. He said the hardest thing wasn’t killing, or surviving. It was coming home. Because home no longer fit. The world kept spinning, but he was stuck in the sand.”

Jeeny: “And what did you tell him?”

Jack: “That he did what he had to.”

Jeeny: “Did you believe it?”

Jack: long pause “No. But I needed him to.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes lies are mercy. But mercy can’t heal what truth refuses to touch.”

Jack: “And yet, truth kills more quietly.”

Jeeny: “Only when we stop listening to it.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into a light drizzle. A few patrons left, their laughter subdued, fading down the street like ghosts returning to old sins. The clock above the bar struck two.

Jeeny: “You ever think what would happen if we stopped pretending wars can be won?”

Jack: “We’d have to face why we start them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe then, the dying would mean something different. Not as victory—but as warning.”

Jack: “Warnings don’t sell well, Jeeny. People want heroes, not mirrors.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we shatter a few mirrors.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips, but her eyes remained solemn—eyes that had seen too many newsreels, too many folded flags.

Jack leaned back, exhaling.

Jack: “You always make hope sound like rebellion.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now, leaving the streets slick and gleaming like glass. The television flickered to static, then dark. The silence that followed was heavier than any sound.

Jack: “You think Ritter was right? That supporting failure might be the truest form of support?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means you love the truth more than the illusion of success.”

Jack: “And that’s supposed to make it easier?”

Jeeny: “No. Just cleaner.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Then maybe that’s where courage really lives—in standing by your country when it finally tells you the truth about itself.”

Jeeny: “And in mourning both sides when it does.”

Host: Outside, the first light of dawn began to break through the clouds, faint and fragile, painting the wet streets in strokes of silver. Inside, the bar was nearly empty, but something had changed—the heaviness had thinned, replaced by the quiet ache of understanding.

Host: As Jack stood to leave, he paused by the door, looking once more at the blank television. Jeeny’s reflection lingered in the glass—a still figure in a restless world.

Host: And as he stepped into the soft, forgiving rain, it was as if the night itself exhaled. The war was far away now—but its echo still lived, somewhere between guilt and grace, where truth and loss finally shook hands.