It is true you cannot eat freedom and you cannot power machinery

Host: The rain taps gently against the window, a soft, persistent rhythm that matches the stillness of the room. The low hum of the city outside barely penetrates the quiet of the small café. Jack and Jeeny sit across from each other, the space between them filled with unspoken thoughts. The dim light from the overhead lamp casts a faint glow, its warmth contrasting the chill that lingers in the air.

Jack: “So, we’re talking about freedom, huh?” His voice is steady, but there’s a trace of sarcasm lingering beneath his words. “You can’t eat freedom, you can’t power machines with democracy. But let’s be real, Jeeny. That’s what people love about freedom, right? It sounds great, but it doesn’t fix the real problems. You can’t fill your stomach with ideals.” He leans back, his arms crossed, looking at her with that familiar skeptical expression. “Corazon Aquino’s words— they sound noble, but don’t you think they’re just a way of justifying the brokenness of democracy?”

Jeeny: Her eyes are steady, unwavering, as she takes a slow breath. There’s a quiet conviction in her gaze that challenges the hardness in his. “It’s not about eating freedom or powering machinery. It’s about what happens when those things—like food and power—are controlled by the few. When people have no voice, no ability to change their circumstances. Freedom isn’t a luxury. It’s the foundation that allows people to even have a chance at change.” She pauses, letting the words settle, the quiet intensity in her voice holding the weight of history. “And sometimes, Jack, freedom is the only thing that keeps us human.”

Jack: He shakes his head, his voice thick with cynicism. “You’re romanticizing it again, Jeeny. I get the idea of freedom. I understand the concept. But what does it really do when people are hungry, when they don’t have anything? They can’t eat freedom. They can’t survive on a concept.” His eyes flicker with frustration. “And sure, people are suffering in dictatorships, but democracy doesn’t just make the world better. Look around. It’s messy. It’s inefficient. Power doesn’t care about your ideals.”

Jeeny: Her brow furrows slightly, her voice gaining a quiet passion. “No, it’s not perfect. But the alternative isn’t better, Jack. Dictatorships give no room for change, for freedom of speech, for hope. The truth is, we might not be able to power everything with democracy, but we can’t even try without it.” She leans forward slightly, her gaze piercing. “And that’s why Corazon Aquino’s words matter. Freedom is the tool, even if it isn’t always the solution. It’s the first step. Without it, we’re all just subjects—trapped.”

Jack: He scoffs, the edge of his voice cutting through the room. “You really believe that, don’t you? That freedom’s a cure-all? How many people are still suffering in democracies, Jeeny? How many people are left in the dark, just like those in dictatorships? It’s a fantasy to think freedom alone fixes everything.” His tone softens for a moment, revealing a flicker of doubt. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe freedom is important. But when we don’t know how to use it, it’s just as worthless as a lie.”

Jeeny: Her lips press into a thin line, but her eyes remain open, empathetic. “It’s not a fantasy, Jack. It’s a tool, but only if we’re willing to use it. The point isn’t to believe it fixes everything—it’s to understand that without it, we don’t have the chance to even fight for a better world.” She pauses, her voice growing more quiet but just as intense. “A dictatorship doesn’t give you the ability to push back. It doesn’t even let you hope. And when people can’t even dream of change, that’s when freedom really matters.”

Host: The room is heavy with their words, the tension unspoken but palpable. The soft sound of the rain outside seems to act as a backdrop to their thoughts, each one wrestling with the complexity of freedom, power, and suffering. Jack’s face shows traces of weariness, a man who has been torn between ideals and the harsh realities of the world. Jeeny, however, seems to have found a deeper place of understanding, her words now more of a plea for something greater.

Jack: He rubs his face, as if trying to rid himself of the conflict in his mind. “So, you’re saying the hope in democracy is worth all the failure? All the times it doesn’t work, all the injustice it allows? Is that really the trade-off we should make?” His voice lowers, and he looks away, his eyes distant, as though searching for something he can’t quite name.

Jeeny: She watches him, her voice soft but unwavering. “I’m saying that hope is the only thing we can’t afford to lose, Jack. And that’s what freedom gives us—the ability to keep fighting for something better, even when it’s hard.” She pauses, her eyes gentle but firm. “Without it, you become a prisoner to everything you cannot change. And freedom... freedom gives you the chance to make a difference.”

Host: The silence falls between them, the fire crackling softly in the background. Jack seems lost in his own thoughts, his gaze fixed on the flames, while Jeeny watches him, her expression not one of victory, but of quiet understanding. The rain continues, its rhythm now almost comforting in the way it settles around them. Their words, like the storm outside, have settled into the room, and the understanding between them feels like something unspoken but powerful—freedom may not be the answer to every problem, but it is the doorway to change.

Host: And as the night deepens, the world outside continues in its own rhythm. The fire flickers, the rain taps at the window, and inside, two minds remain locked in contemplation, pondering the delicate balance between freedom, suffering, and the hope that lies at the heart of every fight.