It is impossible to exaggerate the wide, and widening, gulf

Host: The television glow filled the small living room with a kind of blue melancholy, the kind of light that makes faces look older, tired, and somehow more honest. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly, the rain outside whispered against the windowpane, and on the coffee table, a half-empty glass of whiskey caught the reflection of the flickering news broadcast.

The anchor’s voice — calm, authoritative — carried the echo of something long gone but never fully buried:
words like “coalition,” “shock and awe,” “freedom,” “liberation.”

Jack sat slouched on the worn sofa, his grey eyes fixed on the screen, jaw tense, the kind of stillness that hides decades of unrest. Jeeny, wrapped in a shawl, sat across from him in the armchair, her posture delicate but her gaze unwavering, like someone who has learned to listen before speaking.

Jeeny: “Nick Clooney once said — ‘It is impossible to exaggerate the wide, and widening, gulf between the American attitude on the Iraq war and the view from our friends across the Atlantic.’”
Jack: “He was right. It wasn’t just a gulf. It was an abyss — filled with politics, oil, and the ghosts of good intentions.”
Jeeny: “And pride.”
Jack: “And fear.”
Jeeny: “Fear disguised as certainty.”

Host: The rain intensified, sheets of water sliding down the glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of amber and white — like a painting that had begun to weep. The television muted, leaving only the sound of rain and the faint hum of memory.

Jack: “I remember the day the war started. Everyone in the office stopped working, just watched the screens. They said it was for freedom. They said we were protecting democracy.”
Jeeny: “And did you believe them?”
Jack: “I wanted to. We all did. Belief is easier than doubt.”
Jeeny: “Until the images started coming back.”
Jack: “Until the silence between explosions became harder to explain.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, the lamplight catching the curve of her face, her eyes glowing with that quiet kind of anger — the one that belongs to those who understand too much.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s strange. When I was in London during that time, people looked at America like it had gone mad. There was sympathy, yes — but also disbelief. They couldn’t understand how a nation so powerful could be so sure and so lost at the same time.”
Jack: “Because power and doubt can’t coexist. Once you start asking questions, the whole narrative begins to crumble.”
Jeeny: “But shouldn’t truth survive questions?”
Jack: “Truth, maybe. But politics isn’t built on truth. It’s built on timing.”
Jeeny: “Timing?”
Jack: “Yeah. Tell the right lie at the right time, and you can build an empire.”

Host: The thunder rolled, distant but steady, shaking the air between them. Jack’s voice lowered, carrying that old mixture of cynicism and ache, the sound of a man who once believed in the myth of righteousness.

Jack: “We called it a ‘war on terror,’ but terror doesn’t have a flag. You can’t bomb an emotion.”
Jeeny: “No. But you can plant it deeper.”
Jack: “And we did. Every missile carried a message: ‘Our fear is stronger than your life.’”
Jeeny: “And what about the gulf Clooney spoke of? The difference between America and the world?”
Jack: “That’s the saddest part. We stopped hearing each other. The Atlantic became an emotional ocean — one side full of justifications, the other full of disbelief.”
Jeeny: “And somewhere in between, the truth drowned.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a slow, rhythmic drizzle. The television screen faded into a news montage — politicians shaking hands, cities in rubble, children running barefoot through dust — the juxtaposition of diplomacy and destruction.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if the world had said no louder?”
Jack: “They did. We just turned the volume down.”
Jeeny: “So arrogance won.”
Jack: “No. Arrogance doesn’t win. It just postpones the loss until it’s catastrophic.”
Jeeny: “And now?”
Jack: “Now, we live with the aftermath — a generation raised on contradiction: freedom as invasion, progress as pain.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him, her eyes glassy, but her voice steady — not from detachment, but from the clarity of one who has learned that grief, when repeated long enough, becomes philosophy.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The real gulf wasn’t between America and Europe. It was between the idea of what we wanted to be and what we actually were.”
Jack: “Idealism versus identity.”
Jeeny: “Yes. America saw itself as the hero of the world. But every hero becomes the villain in someone else’s story.”
Jack: “And that’s the story we stopped reading.”
Jeeny: “Because it didn’t have a happy ending.”
Jack: “Because it didn’t have our flag on it.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving a heavy silence, as if the sky had run out of ways to mourn. The clock ticked louder, and in its rhythm, there was something human — the slow, indifferent beating of time moving on without permission.

Jack: “It’s strange. We’ve built skyscrapers tall enough to touch clouds, but we still can’t build a bridge across understanding.”
Jeeny: “Because bridges require humility, not pride.”
Jack: “And humility doesn’t win elections.”
Jeeny: “But it wins peace.”
Jack: “Peace doesn’t trend.”
Jeeny: “Neither does wisdom.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, the bulb buzzing faintly, as if echoing their exhaustion. Outside, the street shimmered under the wet light, each puddle reflecting fragments of the world — broken, luminous, unrepentant.

Jeeny: “You know, Clooney’s line wasn’t just about war. It was about empathy — the distance between perception and understanding.”
Jack: “Empathy doesn’t survive war. It’s the first casualty.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe the next revolution isn’t about power at all. Maybe it’s about listening.”
Jack: “Listening?”
Jeeny: “Yes. To voices that don’t sound like ours. To truths that make us uncomfortable.”
Jack: “That’s harder than fighting.”
Jeeny: “That’s why it matters more.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the weight of years pressing into his posture. For the first time, his voice softened, not in surrender, but in recognition.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the lesson we missed. We wanted to change the world, but we never tried to understand it first.”
Jeeny: “And understanding always starts with humility.”
Jack: “Something we lost somewhere between victory speeches and oil fields.”
Jeeny: “And something we can still find — if we remember what we broke.”
Jack: “You think the world forgives?”
Jeeny: “Eventually. But only after we stop pretending we did nothing wrong.”

Host: The rain clouds parted, and a faint moonlight spread through the window, illuminating the room — soft, fragile, almost merciful.

Jack turned off the television, and for the first time that night, the silence felt honest. Jeeny poured the last of the whiskey into two glasses, slid one across the table, and raised hers slightly.

Jeeny: “To bridges, then.”
Jack: “And to the courage to cross them.”

Host: The glasses clinked softly, the sound fragile but true — like a truce between two weary nations. The city outside exhaled, and the moonlight traced the faint outline of hope across the wall.

And as they sat there — two voices in a world still echoing with argument — Clooney’s words lingered in the air,
not as politics,
but as prophecy:

That the greatest gulf is not between nations,
but between understanding and pride —
and that only when we listen across the water
will the world finally
begin to heal.