It is our experience that political leaders do not always mean

Host: The capitol stood in the distance — lit up like an altar to paradox. Its white dome glowed against the night, pristine in appearance, deceitful in symbolism. The air smelled faintly of rain and rhetoric — that peculiar perfume of promises and asphalt.

Host: Inside a small café two blocks away, the world’s contradictions were more visible. The television above the counter flickered with campaign footage. Pundits shouted, polls scrolled, and the tired barista nodded along, her faith long since replaced by caffeine.

Host: At the corner booth, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, staring into a half-empty cup of coffee like it might confess something if he waited long enough. Jeeny sat opposite him, her coat draped over the chair, a notebook open, pen tapping rhythmically — the sound of skepticism learning how to speak softly.

Host: The rain began to fall again outside, and with it, the music of the absurd resumed.

Jeeny: (reading from her notebook) “Abba Eban once said, ‘It is our experience that political leaders do not always mean the opposite of what they say.’”

Jack: (half-smirking) “Now that’s a clever way of saying: occasionally, they tell the truth — by accident.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “That’s exactly why I love the quote. It’s not cynical; it’s surgical. Eban didn’t accuse them of lying — he just implied that truth, when it happens, is almost unintentional.”

Jack: “A slip of the tongue — or the conscience.”

Jeeny: “Or the strategy. Politicians sometimes tell the truth not because they believe it, but because it happens to serve them that week.”

Jack: “Which means even honesty has a constituency.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly — power strained under the city’s electric pulse. Somewhere nearby, a police siren wailed like the city’s conscience realizing it was late to its own trial.

Jack: “You ever notice how politics feels like theatre? Everyone reciting lines they half-believe, under lighting they didn’t choose.”

Jeeny: “It’s not theatre, Jack. It’s confession disguised as performance.”

Jack: “That’s generous. I’d call it illusion disguised as principle.”

Jeeny: “And yet, illusions move people. Hope needs stage lights.”

Jack: “Hope also needs amnesia.”

Jeeny: “That’s unfair.”

Jack: “No — that’s history. Every campaign slogan is just a line recycled from some broken promise a generation ago.”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “So what’s your alternative? Total cynicism? No trust, no ideals, no language left uncorrupted?”

Jack: “Language was the first casualty of politics. Every word’s been weaponized. ‘Freedom,’ ‘unity,’ ‘justice’ — they’re no longer principles, they’re passwords.”

Jeeny: “Passwords to what?”

Jack: “To power. You say the right word, you get through the gate. Say the wrong one, you disappear.”

Host: The barista turned up the volume slightly on the television. A senator was speaking passionately about “transparency” while his aides whispered just off-camera. Jack and Jeeny both glanced up at it, then back to each other, wordless but knowing.

Jeeny: “Eban’s quote wasn’t just witty — it was tragic. He was saying we’ve lowered the bar so much that when a politician tells even a half-truth, we act like it’s a miracle.”

Jack: “Because truth in politics is rare — and like all rare things, we mistake rarity for value.”

Jeeny: “You think honesty doesn’t matter?”

Jack: “I think honesty’s become performance art. People don’t want truth; they want confirmation that their side was right.”

Jeeny: “So what happens to democracy if everyone’s just cheering their own reflection?”

Jack: “Democracy survives — it just stops being moral. It becomes a marketplace of narratives.”

Jeeny: “Then we need better buyers.”

Jack: “Or fewer sellers.”

Host: The rain outside deepened — a relentless percussion against the window. The city blurred, lights bleeding together like colors on a wet canvas. The sound was oddly soothing, a reminder that storms, at least, don’t lie.

Jeeny: “You know, sometimes I think politicians don’t even know when they’re lying anymore. They live in a hall of mirrors — say something long enough and it becomes their truth.”

Jack: “That’s the danger of power — you start mistaking persuasion for sincerity.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s inevitable?”

Jack: “Not inevitable — human. Power distorts perception. Eban was mocking that — not the system, but the psychology. Politicians don’t always mean the opposite of what they say because sometimes they don’t even know what they mean.”

Jeeny: “So they speak in loops — words eating their own tails.”

Jack: “Exactly. And the audience applauds because confusion sounds profound when spoken confidently.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “You almost sound like you pity them.”

Jack: “Maybe I do. Imagine living in a world where every sentence you speak is a negotiation with your own conscience.”

Jeeny: “That’s not just politicians, Jack. That’s everyone who’s ever wanted to be liked.”

Host: A quiet pause filled the space — the kind that feels like realization, not silence. Jack leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the rain as though it were explaining something he’d long forgotten.

Jack: “So maybe we’re all complicit. We expect our leaders to perform miracles, then crucify them for being human.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we still hope. That’s the madness of democracy — we keep believing that next time, the words might mean what they sound like.”

Jack: “Faith in language. That’s the last religion left.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe truth is our prayer — clumsy, inconsistent, but still sacred.”

Host: The TV went silent. The senator’s face froze mid-sentence, his hand raised, caught between sincerity and gesture. The flicker of the screen threw blue shadows across the table, making both of them look like ghosts debating faith.

Jack: “You think Eban meant it as a joke?”

Jeeny: “He meant it as a warning. That truth in politics isn’t extinct — just camouflaged. You have to listen between the words.”

Jack: “Between the words — that’s where the real speech lives.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where morality hides, too.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the last light. The city hummed beyond the glass, alive with ambition, compromise, and small pockets of honesty. Jack and Jeeny stood, gathering their coats, the conversation still warm in the air.

Jack: (as they walked out) “Maybe we don’t deserve honest leaders.”

Jeeny: (glancing at him) “Maybe we just need to become honest citizens.”

Host: Outside, the rain fell harder — cleansing, relentless, indiscriminate. The Capitol dome glowed faintly through the storm, its reflection trembling in the puddles below — a monument not to purity, but to persistence.

Host: And as the two disappeared into the wet night, Eban’s irony hung in the air — sharp, timeless, prophetic:

Host: In politics, truth is never absent — only inconvenient, fleeting, and most often, accidental.