It is important for people to be able to read all sides of every

Host: The city was hushed beneath the weight of fog, the kind that smudged the streetlights and made the world seem like a fading photograph. Inside a narrow newsroom, paper still fluttered from the printing press, and the scent of ink and coffee hung like a second atmosphere.

It was long past midnight. The machines had fallen silent, but the air still hummed with tension — the aftershock of truth being told.

Jack sat slouched at his desk, a cigarette between his fingers, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a stack of newspapers, her eyes dark, her expression resolute. The headline between them read:

“Government Restricts Access to Opposition Reports — ‘For the Public Good.’”

Outside, a distant siren wailed. Inside, only the clock ticked, patient and accusing.

Jeeny: “Jeannette Rankin once said, ‘It is important for people to be able to read all sides of every question; for a feeling of national unity does not come from one-sided or inadequate information, but from a sense of freedom impartially secured and of opportunity equalized by a just government.’”

Jack: (dryly) “Beautiful sentiment. Shame the government didn’t get the memo.”

Host: The cigarette smoke curled between them like a quiet war. Jack’s eyes, cold and grey, flicked up from the paper. There was something in them — part weariness, part defiance.

Jack: “You can’t give people all sides of every question, Jeeny. Most can’t handle one side without tearing each other apart.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t information, Jack. Maybe it’s fear.”

Jack: “No — it’s chaos. Too many voices, too little truth. Freedom’s a noble idea until it starts a fire.”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to be honest.”

Host: Her words struck through the smoke like a blade. The light above them buzzed, casting shadows that trembled across the walls, as if the room itself were undecided.

Jack: “You think truth builds unity? Look around. Every time the press prints something controversial, half the country screams treason, and the other half calls it not enough. That’s not unity — that’s exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “But at least it’s alive. Silence is worse.”

Jack: “Silence is peace.”

Jeeny: (sharply) “No. Silence is surrender.”

Host: The pause that followed was heavy — the kind of silence that comes not from emptiness, but from impact. Jack flicked his cigarette into a metal tray, the ember glowing for a moment before dying.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe words can save the world.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because words are what make people think. And thinking is what makes people free.”

Jack: “Freedom,” he said, tasting the word like it was bitter. “That’s a dangerous thing to sell. It’s messy. Uncontrollable. Half the wars in history started because someone wanted to be ‘free.’”

Jeeny: “And every war for justice started the same way.”

Host: Her voice didn’t rise, but the room seemed to bend toward it, drawn by conviction. Jeeny’s eyes, deep and unwavering, caught the flicker of light, making them glow with something fierce — not rage, but purpose.

Jeeny: “Rankin was the first woman elected to Congress. She voted against World War I and II — stood alone, mocked, called a traitor. But she wasn’t wrong. She believed democracy isn’t about agreement — it’s about access to truth.”

Jack: “And look what it got her: exile in her own country.”

Jeeny: “History caught up, Jack. It always does.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly. The rain outside had started again, soft against the window, a rhythm of persistence. He rubbed his temple, his voice lower now, almost confessional.

Jack: “You ever wonder what truth costs, Jeeny? Every journalist who tells it loses something — safety, reputation, peace. I’ve seen good reporters go down for printing what everyone should’ve known but didn’t want to hear.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still print.”

Jack: (pausing) “Because I don’t know how not to.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your faith.”

Host: The word lingered — faith — a concept alien to Jack’s rational mind but familiar to his restless soul. Jeeny stepped closer, her hand brushing a copy of the day’s edition.

Jeeny: “You think unity comes from control. But real unity comes from trust — in people’s ability to think, to choose, to disagree without being enemies. A government that fears information fears its own citizens.”

Jack: “Maybe because its citizens don’t always know what to do with the truth.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them, don’t cage them.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly now, not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of belief. Jack stared at her, then at the newspaper headline again — as though trying to see through it, to something cleaner beneath the ink.

Jack: “You’re idealistic, Jeeny. You talk about freedom like it’s simple. But you’ve never had to choose between telling the truth and keeping your job.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Haven’t I?”

Host: The question cut deeper than any accusation. Jack looked up sharply, but she didn’t elaborate. Her eyes spoke enough — of sacrifices made, battles fought quietly, pages edited, voices erased.

Jack: “You think I’m a coward.”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re tired. But truth doesn’t wait for rest.”

Host: Jack turned his face away, but his expression cracked — just slightly. His hands, rough and ink-stained, trembled. For a long time, the only sound was the rain outside, steady, cleansing.

Jack: (quietly) “You really think a free press can still save us?”

Jeeny: “Not alone. But it can remind us who we are. It can give us back our mirror.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked. The light caught in her eyes, and something unspoken passed between them, something as old as conscience and as fragile as trust.

Jack: “You think unity can come from disagreement?”

Jeeny: “Only from it. Agreement without freedom is submission, Jack. Rankin knew that. Unity isn’t everyone thinking alike — it’s everyone being allowed to think at all.”

Host: The clock struck two. The city outside was half-asleep, but inside that small, flickering room, something had awakened. Jack reached for the newspaper, folded it carefully, and set it aside.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? That she was right. And that we’re losing that freedom inch by inch — not through force, but through fatigue.”

Jeeny: “Then stay awake.”

Host: Jeeny’s words were quiet, but they rang like a bell. Jack gave a small, weary smile — the kind that belonged to men who had once given up, and now wondered if maybe, just maybe, they shouldn’t have.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll write something tomorrow. Not propaganda. Not spin. Just… truth.”

Jeeny: “Then it’ll be worth every risk.”

Host: The camera would rise now — from the dim newsroom, past the windows streaked with rain, into the wide, sleeping city, where towers of light pierced the fog like candles in a vigil.

Host: And as the morning began to bleed faintly into the horizon, the press below groaned to life again — the heartbeat of a nation still daring to believe in its own reflection.

Host: For as Jeannette Rankin once said, and as their hearts now remembered — national unity is not born of silence or fear, but of freedom impartially secured, and of a people brave enough to face every side of truth.